When Brighteness Dims
by grayautumnsky13
Summary: Regina Blanchard lives an isolated, yet very public life-and Robin Locksley, a bootlegger and a widower with a young son, wants absolutely nothing to do with her or anyone like her. Yet as their lives become oddly tangled, they come to find they have more in common than either of them ever thought possible. Set in the 1920s.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he saw her, it'd been at a distance.

She was standing on the balcony, looking out onto the street. She wore a dark blue sequined dress and the feather from her headband waved gently in the wind. Her shoulders slumped forward, her elbows rested on the balcony's rail, and she looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but where she was—such an odd juxtaposition to the roaring party happening just below her.

In the ballroom below, the Blanchards' guests were dressed to the nines, dancing and laughing while they enjoyed the free-flowing bootlegged champagne and orchestra, relishing in the excess and pomp that came from the generosity of their hosts.

Then, he knew little of the Blanchard's marriage.

Leopold was a banker. He was considerably older and had been married before, and from that marriage he had a daughter. Mary-Margaret was sixteen and every bit as beautiful as everyone claimed her mother was, with her deep hazel eyes and creamy skin—details he only knew because when the girl had cut her long, dark hair into a fashionable bob, her picture found its way to the front page of the society column. It hung in the barber shop beneath his apartment and local working-class girls came in flocks to copy her style.

He'd rolled his eyes at her picture. She was still a doe-eyed, baby-faced child—but someday, in the not so distant future, she'd marry, and she and her husband would be groomed to take the place of her father and stepmother. Her alleged innocence and compassion would fade and self-interest would take its place. The Blanchards apparently also had a son, but he'd never seen him. Presumably, he attended school somewhere else and rarely visited; and though he had no solid proof to back up that assumption, people of the Blanchards' social set didn't have a use for children. Until they were adults, they were merely in the way…

And Regina Blanchard was a busy woman—and not unlike her step-daughter, she was something of a local legend.

For as long as he could remember, he'd known her name.

Her family was tremendously wealthy, and when her engagement to Leopold Blanchard was announced, there was heavy speculation that she was even richer than him. Everyone knew the Blanchards hadn't married for love, there'd really been no question of that, and from what he'd seen and heard, they'd never bothered to pretend that that was the case. From the start, it was clear that something else had led to their union; it wasn't a far leap to assume that that something was money. After all, people like the Blanchards could never seem to have enough of it.

Rumors of their marriage soon ceded to rumors of her affairs; and just before the war, a rather unsettling story swirled around town about her cruel treatment of the house maids. She was cold and aloof on the good days and unleashed onto them a fiery temper on the bad days—and by every account, the bad days outnumbered the good ones. Coupled with the other details he knew of her, he'd had no desire to know her. She was everything he hated—frivolous with her spending and stingy with her obligatory pet causes, only caring when a newsboy from the local paper was sent with a camera. So while she held a prominent position on the hospital board and gave regular donations to the local school and orphanage, it was hard to believe that she actually cared about any of those things.

The war had changed a lot of people; there hadn't been much choice in that. The dead came from all walks of life and all ranks of the social classes. Yet for some, it touched them to a far lesser degree.

When he was on leave, he'd caught a glimpse of a story in the paper. The writer gushed of the sacrifice of Regina Blanchard's personal time—how amazing it was that she'd shown up regularly to cut and roll bandages for the Red Cross, how she'd personally penned letters to soldiers and assembled care packages for wounded soldiers unable to come home. The story was complete with a picture of her in a fur stole and a brooch that could've easily bought six months of rations of the soldiers she pretended to care about. He'd laughed a week later when rumors began to swirl of yet another scandalous affair—this one with the Major who'd been put in charge of Red Cross contributions.

While no one could discount that Regina Blanchard was an involved philanthropist, there was no question that her kindness was self-motivated, and likely a cover. She got something from her charitable work and that dimmed its relevance, and frankly, left a bad taste in his mouth...

So, the week before, when John asked him to pick up and deliver an order to the Blanchards, he'd rolled his eyes and begrudgingly agreed— he had no idea how that delivery would transform his life.

In that moment, he'd truly wanted nothing to do with the Blanchards; but, then again, he didn't want much to do with any of his customers.

Of course, he had no qualms about taking their money—they all had more than anyone could count—but he didn't fraternize with them. There was no small talk upon their delivery nor did he care what they planned to do with the excess of alcohol they illegally purchased from him. He assumed they liked it this way. The less anyone knew of their illegal activities, the better…

He wasn't proud of what he did for a living. He was well aware that it could easily earn him a private room at Sing Sing. But it put food on the table and kept a roof over his son's head, and when he considered that, he couldn't see any real issue with it; besides that, he didn't have much of a choice.

When the war ended, he'd naively thought that was the end to the pain and suffering; he'd assumed things would just go back to the way they were, and the lucky ones could simply go on with their lives and forget the rest had happened…

But when he came home to his wife, the quaint, sleepy little town where he'd grown up was just as jaded and disillusioned as the rest of the world. That was understandable, of course, but he hadn't realized just how few "lucky ones" there were. Most of the boys he'd grown up with didn't make it home, and he was unprepared for the guilt that came with his luck.

It seemed inappropriate to complain that the little bar that had been his father and his grandfather's livelihood had shut down shortly after he'd deployed, and the reality of the new prohibition laws had set in. They'd tried to hold out; everyone was so sure that that law couldn't be enforced, but it was. He'd learned about it through letters from his father and from Marian, and while the war still raged on, he was hopeful that he'd find work; after all, he was young and strong, he'd done reasonably well in school, and before the war, jobs were plentiful. New industry seemed to be popping up left and right; opportunity was everywhere.

Yet, when he returned home, securing employment for more than a few weeks proved to be more difficult than it should've been. The loud noises of the factories made his hands shake and his brow sweat, and the confined spaces of the coal mines a few towns over left his heart racing and a tight knot in his gut. Every loud voice, every whistle, and every bang sent him back to the trenches. The barbed wire and the shellings, the cries from the wounded, and the overwhelming feeling of dread that came with knowing that nothing could be done overwhelmed him—and it was worse now than it was while he was in the thick of it. He'd freeze in place as those memories flooded him, rendering him immobile—and rendering him useless on the job.

After it happened a couple of times, he knew better than to return to the job—it didn't matter how empathetic an employer was, if he couldn't function in the job, he'd be fired. That was that. So, for a few years he bounced around constantly, picking up temporary odd jobs here and there, hoping that this time things would be different. But they never were and the embarrassment that came with each loss made him wonder if everyone had it wrong—he wasn't lucky at all to have made it home. And just when he thought he couldn't sink lower, he had found his just-barely six-month old son crying in his cradle while his mother moaned from the bedroom. He grabbed Roland and tried to comfort him while he ran to Marian, finding her barely conscious and delirious. In that moment, he felt a terror like no other he'd experienced before. He yelled for help as Roland screamed in his arms, and the woman next door called the doctor. But it was no use and two days later, Marian was gone.

Marian's funeral was the lowest point of his life—yet in a strange way, it'd also been a turning point.

It'd been the end of the night when Marco, one of his father's former suppliers and a life-long family friend, arrived with his wife. Marco gave him a tight hug as he offered his condolences and pressed a bottle of whiskey into the breast pocket of his jacket, offering a little wink as he pulled back and mumbled something about _getting through_. Robin nodded and thanked him, and then when all the guests were gone, John opened it and poured them each a drink.

He's not sure now how it came up or who first suggested it, but the more they drank the more sense it all made—and really, he was desperate. A few days later, he spent what little money he had to buy a second-hand truck, and a week later, he and John took Roland up to Canada for a visit and to make Marco an offer. They returned to Vermont with their first load of bootlegged liquor…

Suddenly, he had steady income. Word quickly spread around town, and monthly trips turned into weekly trips which turned into bi-weekly trips for both him and John. This had gone on for years now. They had regular customers and had made quite a nice living for themselves; and best of all, he couldn't get fired when he had a bad day.

Regardless of who went, they always took Roland; after all, it was hard to suspect foul play when an adorable curly-haired five-year old with long eyelashes explained they were crossing the border to go and see his late-mother's parents. It wasn't entirely a lie—John and Marian had grown up without parents and Marco had always kept an eye on them—and though he wasn't entirely sure why Roland decided to tell the story that he did, the border guards believed it and always just waved them through, never stopping to look through the wood crates in the back of the truck.

On that first delivery to the Blanchards, he'd gone alone. The Blanchards were usually John's customers, but he was picking up more stock (or, as he'd tell the border guards, picking up his late-sister's son from a visit with his grandparents), so he'd gone in his place. He hadn't expected a party to be in full-swing, and he hadn't expected to have to haul it all in on his own. Yet, that's exactly what he found when he arrived; only Regina seemed to be waiting for him, and given the way she was dressed, she'd be little help.

Nonetheless, when he caught her eye, her shoulders straightened up and she disappeared back into the house. A moment later, she was opening up the back door to let him in, her checkbook in-hand.

"I'll send someone to bring in the crates," she'd said, barely looking at him. "It'll be just a minute. Everyone's in the ballroom."

"Sure," he'd replied curtly as the door closed behind him.

"Apparently this was not an expected order." She offered a little grin that faded when it wasn't returned.

"Yes, so often people need an emergency shipment of champagne in the middle of the night."

She'd looked sharply at him, but bit her tongue and returned her attention to the check and for a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it. But then she'd looked up, waiting until she caught his gaze. "Better than in the light of day."

He'd scoffed. Of course, she couldn't help herself from being snide.

"I think this covers it?"

"I'm sure it does."

"I added on a bit for your trouble."

"Thank you."

He'd stared at her and she'd stared back.

Finally, it was Regina who broke the awkward silence between them.

"I thought you might bring your son."

"And why would you think that?"

She'd blinked. "Well… what else would you do with him at eleven o'clock on a school night?"

"I wouldn't wake him, that's for sure." His eyes narrowed, and though he knew he should, he couldn't just leave it there. "How do you know anything about my son?"

She'd looked away. "He got an award at school. For being first to know the alphabet, I think. I think he'll do well when he moves up to first grade." His brow had arched as she looked pointedly back at him. "My signature is next to his principal's."

"Oh."

"I suppose you didn't notice."

He had noticed; he just hadn't cared.

She'd drawn in a breath as she looked around, presumably waiting for whomever had been tasked with helping him unload his truck and bring in the cases of liquor.

"I wanted to meet him."

"Why?"

She'd shrugged and when she looked back at him, it'd been impossible not to notice the change in her gaze as she offered a weak little smile. "I… like children. He seems bright and I wanted to congratulate him personally."

"You could've come to the award ceremony," he'd told her as his arms folded. "You could have congratulated all of the children who received awards."

"I couldn't make it."

"Of course not."

Her jaw had tightened and once more, she'd looked away, her eyes shifting again to the doorway. "You make it sound like I didn't want to be there."

"Well, we do have a tendency to prioritize the things that truly matter to us."

"Yes," she'd agreed, her jaw still tight as her fingers twirled the glass beads that hung around her neck. "We do."

"You have a son, don't you?"

"Yes. Henry."

Nodding, his eyes narrowed as he thought back to her earlier comment about it being a school night. "He's not here, though, is he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your son. He doesn't live here, does he?"

She was offended. He could tell—and for some reason, he liked that he'd gotten under her skin. "I'm not sure why that's any of your business."

"It's not. Just as it's none of your business where my son is."

"Touché," she'd muttered as her arms folded.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose you will whether or not I want you to."

A soft chuckle escaped him. She was right about that—and truly, he was just curious. "If you like children so much," he began. "Why send your own son away?" He wasn't sure what compelled him to ask her something like that, really, but as soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it; and unlike the moment before when he was glad to have gotten under her skin, he wished more than anything he could take back the question. "I'm sorry—"

For a moment, she'd just stood there as his words hung on his lips. Her eyes narrowed and she'd looked him up and down, and he was sure that she was about to lash out as she famously did; yet, her voice remained still—chillingly still.

"You think you know me, don't you? You've heard stories and seen pictures, and from that you've got me all figured out. But you don't know a damn thing about me. You see what I want you to see, and nothing more." For a moment, he thought she might leave it there, but she didn't. Instead, she took a step inward so that they were standing nearly toe-to-toe. "Yes," she'd begun, her voice dropping an octave and sending a little chill down his spine, "I sent my son to school in another country; but don't presume you know anything about him or me based on that detail alone."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," she'd cut in. "You absolutely meant to."

She hadn't clarified what it was that he'd meant to do, exactly, but she was right. He did mean to say what he did and imply what he did; that didn't mean that he didn't regret it.

"Here's the thing, though," she continued, "Instead of judging the sort of parent I am based on where I sent my son to get an education, try considering why I might've done that." His eyes pressed closed as he'd tried to formulate an apology, but before he could, she went on. "Don't assume that I didn't think the local schools weren't good enough for him. Quite the contrary, actually, especially given the amount of money I've poured into them."

"You're right—"

"I know." He'd taken a breath as she stepped back, and he was glad for the distance. "Unlike you, I won't make an assumption about the sort of parent you are, and I'm willing to venture you'd do anything to protect your son."

He'd nodded. "That would be correct."

"So, don't think that I wouldn't do the same."

With that, she'd turned on her heels and walked out of the room as she muttered that someone would be there to help him eventually. He'd only nodded and watched her go.

The second time he met her, it'd been to drop off another order and a letter that contained his profuse apology. The third time, he'd gone to see if she'd accepted it. She'd rolled her eyes and muttered a curt, _Yes, I suppose I can forgive you, if it means that much to you, _before two footmen joined them to carry in two cases of wine; and on the fourth time he met her, it was by chance.

He was picking Roland up from school to take him up to see Marco and Eugenia. Roland had been chattering on about his "Granny's" lasagna and stopped abruptly to tie his shoe, and that's when he noticed her.

She wore a plain yet bold, red silk dress, and though he didn't doubt that it cost an extraordinary amount of money, nothing about her outfit, outside of its color, was over the top or screamed for attention. There was no newsboy with a camera nearby; in fact, no one was around at all. It was just her and a little girl with a skinned knee—a little girl he'd seen on the playground and around town. The little girl's cheeks were tear-stained, but she was no longer crying as Regina tended to her bleeding knee. He'd watched as she'd cleaned it up and cut a bandage, all the while smiling as she spoke to the girl. He couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but the little girl laughed as she lifted her up from the counter and placed her feet back down on the floor—and then, he watched as Regina reached into her pocket and gave the girl a little candy wrapped in a metallic red paper. The little girl ran off and Regina watched her go, offering a wistful little smile as she did.

His eyes narrowed and a little smile tugged up from the corners of his mouth; but before he could make himself known, or decide if he even wanted to do that, Roland gave his hand a hard tug and dragged him out of the schoolhouse. He'd laughed as he looked back at his son, shaking his head as Roland whined about being able to practically taste the lasagna he knew was waiting for him—and with one final look back at Regina, he found himself smiling at her. In some ways, this version of her didn't seem real; yet, at the same time, he was fairly certain that this was the realest version of her—a version not many had the chance to see.


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn't sure what to make of Robin Locksley.

Over the course of the last three months, she'd met him a handful of times, and each interaction was wholly different.

She was a firm-believer in first impressions—after all, it's difficult to hide behind a mask and put on a show when you don't know that anyone's looking. The first time she'd seen him had been outside of the school house, just before the annual awards. His son had earned one and he'd been beaming with pride. Before getting in her car, she watched him scoop up the boy and toss him in the air before pulling him into a tight hug. He spun around and cupped the back of his son's head, and when his hold loosened up, he listened eagerly as his son spoke to him. In a way, she felt like she was intruding on a private family moment and that by gawking at them she might be rude, but for whatever reason, she couldn't bring herself to look away. All she could do was stand there awkwardly smiling and hoping they didn't notice her.

She couldn't help but think she'd like to know him better—and as she stood there, considering that, she found herself distracted, trying to memorize his every detail.

His eyes were the first feature that drew her attention. Even at a slight distance, they were striking, really—bright blue and kind—and when he smiled, they seemed to glitter. She usually wasn't a fan of facial hair on men, but she liked it on him. His scruffy beard was well-kept, and instead of making him look sloppy, it made him look distinguished—and it was only at a second glance that she noticed that it hid the dimples that sunk into his cheeks whenever he smiled.

Well, she wasn't sure that she liked that particular detail, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered in that regard, and it didn't detract from the overall package—and truly, she'd only ever get to admire him from afar.

The second time she saw him he was at the house, taking an order for a party Leopold would be hosting later in the week. She'd stood at the top of the stairs watching their interaction, watching how he seemed comfortable, not at all put off by the obnoxious excess of wealth surrounding him nor the fact that he was making an illegal transaction. He walked with confidence—his head up and his shoulders square—and when he spoke to someone, he looked directly at them, regardless of whether he was talking to a footman, the butler, or to Leopold himself.

At first, she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that—and she certainly didn't think she'd like it. Being looked in the eye made her uncomfortable. It made her feel like she was being sized up, as if her vulnerabilities were evaluated, and inevitably she'd fail to measure up. She was usually the first to look away and though she didn't quite know what it was, she was sure that said something about her…

Their first conversation had been a rocky one. She'd meant to compliment his son and left feeling insulted—and insulted on the most personal level. In not so many words, he insinuated that she didn't love her son, that she'd sent him away to school so that she didn't have to be bothered with the ins and outs of motherhood. And while that was vehemently untrue, it stung—and he knew that it did.

She hadn't expected his apology nor had she wanted one; after all, she spent an entire evening convincing herself that Robin Locksley and his opinions didn't matter in the least, so his apology shouldn't matter either.

Yet his note to her struck a chord.

It was short and sweet, to the point, yet filled with his own musings of the unexpected challenges of parenthood and the unseen struggles people face. She had an inkling that he was speaking from experience, but she couldn't know for sure. What she did know, though, is that his words meant something to her. It wasn't often that people acknowledged her struggles and she understood why that was—after all, from the outside looking in, what struggles could a person like her have?

There was something familiar about Robin Locksley. She couldn't quite pin-point what it was exactly, but despite their rocky first meeting, she still found herself wanting to know him.

There weren't many people she felt that way about, there weren't many people she wanted to know—and she was sure that that feeling was mutual. She was a hard person to like and an even harder person to love. She'd spent years crafting her facade, cocooning herself in an air of elusive mystery, swirling rumors that protected her secrets, and a hard shell that hid any glimmer of her feelings. In her most personable moments, she was guarded and in her most vulnerable ones, she was cruel—and she'd done this for so long, she was beginning to lose any semblance of self she might've had.

Truthfully, she wasn't sure how she felt about that—it hadn't been her goal—and in some ways it seemed appropriate that the things she did to preserve herself had led to the loss of self.

But really, what had she lost?

Over the years, she'd tried to build relationships with people she cared for and liked, the people she wanted to be around, but she always seemed to fail. It wasn't until her son was born that she finally understood that despite her best intentions, her love would always be poison.

For a time, she thought she'd found an antidote. For a time, she had someone she loved who, miraculously, loved her back—and he had. The problem was that his love wasn't enough.

She wasn't supposed to fall in love with Daniel. She wasn't supposed to have let down her guard and let him in, and she was foolish for ever thinking that it could work out. Looking back, that was so obvious, but while she was in the thick of it, it hadn't been so clear. She was too focused on how she felt and what could be.

They'd met by chance on a warm summer night in '16. She'd taken a longer-than usual ride and when she'd returned, Daniel was there, brushing one of the horses. He'd smiled sweetly and complimented Rocinante, and from there, they'd struck up a conversation. She learned that he worked at the country club, giving riding lessons to children and caring for members' horses when they couldn't be there, ensuring they got enough exercise and were groomed. He was saving up to go to veterinary school and to speed up the process, he was living with his sister's family. On that summer night, he'd been close to having the necessary amount to cover his first year and hoped to start classes that coming spring—but of course, by April, it was all a moot point. Instead of starting school that spring, he boarded a ship to Europe and found himself stationed on the front lines, offering relief to the exhausted men who'd been fighting for years.

Throughout the war, they traded letters—sweet little notes that she kept bounded up by a ribbon and tucked in an old hat box in her closet. In those letters, she kept him up-to-date on the things happening in their sleepy little town, reminisced about steamy nights in the hayloft above the stables at the country club, and recounted funny stories and anecdotes she hoped would raise his spirits. In those letters, their relationship blossomed from a fling into something that seemed like it could be lasting.

They made plans for after the war—and looking back, it seemed so naïve to think those plans could've worked. She was going to leave Leopold and he was finally going to go to veterinary school. They were going to buy a little plot of land—just enough for a house, some stables, and a garden—and that's where they'd raise their family. In the letters they exchanged, they planned every detail of their lives. The house would be white with blue shutters, surrounded by a white picket fence and a cobblestone path that led from the road to the front. Another path would take them from the back door to the stables, with a little fork that led to their fenced-in garden. Though she'd never so much as boiled an egg, she imagined herself making big meals on Sundays when friends would come to visit and picking beans and tomatoes with their children at her feet. In every story they spun, they were deliriously happy.

He'd been allowed to come home on leave for his father's funeral—he didn't know the strings she'd had to pull to make that happen—and though he was only allowed a handful of days before he had to ship back out, it'd been enough to give them a taste of what their lives would be like.

And that's when she got pregnant.

Daniel shipped back out in late September and by early November a ceasefire was called—but in those weeks in between, Daniel's letters stopped. At first, she told herself she was silly for worrying; it wasn't like writing love letters to her was the only thing he had to do.

Only two people knew about her affair with Daniel. First was her best friend, Mallory, and the second was Mallory's half-brother, Arthur—a well-connected Major General who volunteered to fight with the British earlier in the war and returned badly injured as a result. To stay apart of the war effort, Arthur headed up the local Red Cross and worked in a hospital for the wounded. Arthur was the one who ensured her letters made it to where they needed to go, Arthur was the one who'd gotten Daniel the leave for his father's funeral, and it was Arthur who'd shown up at her doorstep to inform her that Daniel had gone missing on the first of October, only four days after arriving back on the front. She'd held her breath as she stared at him, tears welling in her eyes as she offered a high-pitched, _Well, then there's still hope, _but Arthur shook his head and informed her that Daniel had been a part of a prisoner exchange. He was confirmed dead upon the exchange.

Her heart nearly burst when he said it, and then he'd awkwardly looked away from her and explained that he thought she should hear it from someone who knew them both, rather than reading his name in the paper the following morning.

She'd nodded as her body went numb and the next day, she read in the paper that the patrol he'd been on when he was captured by the Germans was not his usual routine; he'd volunteered for it to cover one soldier who'd filled his place while he'd been on leave.

Reading that was like a punch to the gut. If she hadn't arranged for him to come home, he'd probably still be alive, she'd realized. _She _did this to him.

She'd barely allowed herself to grieve for him.

Really, how could she? No one knew what he meant to her—and certainly no one knew that he was the father of her child.

Only a week after the news of his death, she'd set a new plan into motion—a new plan that would not only shape her future, but ensure her misery and loneliness. In some ways, it was her penance, but in other ways, it was simply self-preservation.

Still numb with grief, she seduced her husband—not an easy feat considering how uninterested in her Leopold was. But nonetheless, he responded to the alcohol she gave him and to her flirtations. By the time she touched him, he was too drunk to be suspicious and when she'd knelt down in front of him the groan that escaped him told her that even if he was suspicious, he'd never have stopped her. That night, she'd laid under him hating herself and just waiting for it to be over, reminding herself that she needed to do this, that she needed him to believe that the child she was carrying was his...

In retrospect, she should have just left him.

She had a trust fund in her name, and she had no qualms about accepting the stigma that would come with being an unwed mother, but for whatever reason, that hadn't occurred to her until it was too late—and again, this was all part of her penance.

When she told Leopold that she was pregnant, he'd simply stared at her in confusion and had to be reminded of their night together. Still, even after the reminder, he looked unphased and muttered that he hoped the child would be a boy.

He wasn't there when Henry was born, and for that, she was glad.

She'd arranged a busy summer for herself and her husband, obviously time spent apart. Mallory invited her to Newport where she stayed on a month—it was there that she gave birth to Henry—and then convinced Leopold to go on a hunting excursion through Canada for the rest of the summer. The whole scheme had been so elaborate, and she'd enlisted help from Mallory and Arthur. It'd been the latter who'd finally convinced him by explaining the trip was a celebration of the return to normalcy and that the cool-Canadian air would be a nice escape. The trip went on longer than anticipated, and in early September, when they returned, Regina introduced Leopold to their baby son—a son she claimed "came a bit early" at the beginning of August.

She'd held her breath as Leopold examined the baby, huffing, _He's big_, before grinning smugly and hoping he might play football, just as he had, for Harvard one day. She'd managed a nod as he left the nursery, then exhaled and wondered if she actually succeeded in her scheme.

But, of course, it couldn't be that easy.

As the days and weeks and months passed, Henry began to look more and more like his father—and more and more people referenced her boy's beautiful hazel eyes. It wasn't something that was so out of the ordinary and if you didn't think too hard about it, it even made sense. After all, Mary-Margaret had hazel eyes—but Mary-Margaret's eyes were from her mother, not her father.

She'd kept up the facade until Henry was four—though it always felt like she was walking on pins and needles whenever Henry was in Leopold's presence. Then one morning she came down to breakfast to find her husband and son sitting at the table together, already eating. Henry had a bowl of oatmeal and berries in front of him and was chattering happily about upcoming music lesson that afternoon as Leopold stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"He doesn't look like me," he said, without looking at her.

"Well, you're not the only one he could take after," she retorted curtly as her heart began to pound.

"He doesn't look like you either."

"Traits can skip generations," she'd said. It was a reply she had ready. "I've always thought he kind of looked like my mother."

It was then that Leopold looked to her, his brow cocked. "Your mother."

"Yes, the next time I visit my parents, remind me to try and find a picture of her when she was young. I know she has one. You'll see it."

Of course, no such photograph existed, but Leopold only shrugged before turning his attention to the newspaper, focusing on a story about a hockey game at the Winter Games in Chamonix. And it was that day she began researching boarding schools in England.

A month later, she'd made her choice and she, Henry and Mal set sail for England. Only, Mal's ticket was also one-way. In some ways, she was glad that Mal volunteered to be close to Henry—and it nearly killed her to lose them both.

She'd been unprepared for just how lonely those two years without her son would be, and on most days, it was difficult to remember the reason behind sending him away. She didn't like to dwell on it, and she most certainly didn't like to dwell on the effect it might have on her relationship with her son. Prior to going away, he'd never spent so much as a night away from her, and no matter how much she prepped him and no matter how many times he assured her that he'd be okay, without experiencing it, it wasn't truly something either of them could know.

Whenever she spoke to him or visited, he seemed upbeat. He was good at school and made friends quickly, and of course, Mal was always nearby. So, while she wasn't fully sure that Henry or the head mistress at his school would be completely honest with her, she expected that Mal would be, and in some ways that was a comfort. But in other ways, its was anything but. Henry had been a bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence. Like his father, he brought into her life things she hadn't known that she was missing—and like his father, when she didn't get to have him in her daily life, a seemingly permanent ache settled at her core. On some days, she could ignore it; and on other days, she accepted it as the punishment she so obviously deserved, and though she couldn't quite explain why, there had to be a reason for her loneliness.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his reluctance, the Blanchards proved to be ideal customers.

Leopold loved to throw parties, and he spared no expense, especially when his daughter was concerned.

Though she was still a bit too young for marriage, a rumor swept through town that she was soon to be engaged to the slightly older, but still baby faced, David Nolan who came with a fairytale, rags-to-riches story. Leopold had taken him under his wing, first as his financial advisor through the bank and then as a confidant, and it surprised no one when he took on a fairly prominent (and unnecessary) position at the bank alongside Leo. It seemed inevitable that the next step would be the announcement of David's engagement to Mary-Margaret—and just as quickly as the rumor of the engagement spread, so did the rumor that this weekend's party would serve as the perfect setting to announce it.

So it seems odd when he arrives that the evening for a scheduled delivery to find the house desolate and eerily still.

For three months, without fail, two footman had met him at the door to accept a delivery. He followed them down to the cellar when they carried down the final two crates where he knew that Leopold would be surveying his order and waiting with the payment. When he was satisfied, he paid him in cash. Few words were ever exchanged between the two of them, and truly none were needed. Both he and Leopold held up their end of the agreement; there was nothing to discuss.

But tonight, there are no footmen waiting and after ringing the bell several times, no one comes to answer.

It occurs to him that he could just leave, but driving around with $200 of champagne and another $100 or so of various liquors seems like it might tempt fate. After all, there was a reason pickups were always in the middle of the night and deliveries had to wait until sundown.

Drawing in a breath, he pulls his hands from his pockets and tries the door—and to his surprise, it opens without resistance.

He finds that the kitchen is curiously dark with no signs that a meal had even been prepared for that night. Though he knows he probably shouldn't, he looks into the servants hall, and like the kitchen, he finds it empty. His brow furrows as he bites down on his lip as he considers that perhaps there's been a misunderstanding.

He isn't sure what compels him to go up the stairs to the main part of the house, or what or who he expects to find there, but soon, he finds himself standing in one of the house's main hallways.

For a moment, he just stands there, looking around and taking in the gold fleur de lis wallpaper, rich red carpet, and the dimly lit wall sconces. The rooms off of the hall are all dark, save one, and when he pokes his head in, he sees an oil painting over the hearth. Stepping in closer, he narrows his eyes to see it better, and when he gets close enough, he can see that it's a family portrait.

However, it wasn't quite the family that currently resided in the house. Instead, it was a younger version of Leopold Blanchard with a little hazel-eyed girl sitting on his lap—Mary Margaret, he assumes—and a woman who looks eerily similar to Regina standing beside them, her hand positioned on Leopold's shoulder. Leaning in, he studies it a bit more, noting the woman's cheek bones and the shape of her eyes, the kind smile stretched across her lips and dark curls that framed her face—all features that Mary Margaret now possessed, features she obviously inherited from her mother.

Giving the room one more glance, he leaves it, going on to the next—and then, as he rounds the corner, he notices a light stretching out into the hall. Moving toward it, he suddenly freezes—suddenly very aware that he isn't supposed to be where he is. But before he can slink away, he hears Regina's voice—uncharacteristically high-pitched as it cracks, an indication that she's likely losing a battle to maintain her composure—and for whatever reason, he finds himself stepping closer to listen.

"... and why shouldn't he be allowed?"

"I had a letter from the school. He needs to stay and focus on his studies."

"They said that?"

"In not so many words."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's all but failing his math class and could benefit from tutoring. He made a C on his last test. Long division of all things." Leopold's eyes narrow as they fall to where Robin can only assume Regina stands. "I was always good at math. So was Mary Margaret."

"And?"

A heavy silence falls between them, and for whatever reason, he finds himself moving toward the room where the Blanchards stood, hovering in the shadows just beyond the doorway to get a better look.

"I want to see the letter," Regina demands.

"I've told you what it says."

"So?"

Leopold scoffs. "What? Don't you trust me, Regina?"

Now, it's her turn to respond with icy silence. He watches as Regina's features harden and he could almost see her hurt turning into anger as her husband holds her gaze. He has no skin in the game, of course, but he finds himself siding with Regina and his own gaze hardening as he stares at Leopold. Regina had every right to see a letter regarding her son and the fact that Leopold was being so coy with her was suspect, at best.

"I've made my decision. I've already sent a letter back to the school."

Again, there's a long pause, but this time, as his eyes shifted to Regina, he could see tears welling up in her eyes as her jaw began to tremble. "But… it's Christmas," she says, her voice practically cracking. "He hasn't been home since—"

"Then he should've studied harder. My mind's made up. He's staying in London."

"Then I'll go to him!" Regina calls, reaching out to her husband as he turned away from her to lift a glass of abandoned bourbon. "Please. I can go instead. I'll—"

Robin's brows arch as Leopold turns. It seems like a reasonable solution, but as Leopold turns back to her, it is obvious that he doesn't agree. "Don't be stupid."

"You don't need me here."

"You're right. I don't."

"Then—"

"Mary Margaret does." Regina's jaw tightens at his reply. "A bride needs her mother—and, unfortunately, you're the closest thing she's got."

A callous little grin edges over Leopold's lips as he stares at his wife, and it's clear that he chose words that would sting—and judging by Regina's reaction, they had the exact effect he was hoping for and he was pleased.

"I'd only be gone a couple of weeks."

"And how would you go?"

"What do you mean?"

"How would you pay for your passage?" That seemed like a ridiculous question, and judging by the way Regina's cheeks flush with embarrassment—or perhaps, it's anger—he can tell that the question was meant to be rhetorical. "Right," Leopold says smugly as he finally draws a sip from his glass of bourbon. "Then it's settled."

"It'll be Christmas," Regina says again, her voice flat. "He's only eight, and he's—"

"Old enough to learn he has to work for the things he wants. Nothing's free and laziness shouldn't be coddled."

Again, Regina's cheeks redden as she looks up, and now he can plainly see that she's not embarrassed. Her jaw is tense and her eyes are hard, but she doesn't say anything more, likely knowing there's no way she'll win.

Eyes still focusing on her, Leopold slowly drinks his bourbon in one long sip. Regina's eyes remain locked with his, and it is almost as though they are having some sort of silent conversation. The tension between them is palpable, and it makes him feel unsettled, as though he were just waiting for one of them to lash out at the other.

It occurs to him as he's standing there that he should probably go. Whatever fight they were in the middle of was none of his business. Yet, he can't quite bring himself to leave; so, he just stands there, watching and waiting…

Finally, Leopold finishes his drink, slamming the glass down against the wooden top of the bar.

"I'm late," he says, his voice distant and low.

Regina doesn't reply; she doesn't even turn to watch him go.

Robin takes a few steps back just before Leopold exits the room, trudging toward the foyer to grab his coat. A bit awkwardly, Robin watches as he reaches for his hat—and expensive black bowler with burgundy silk piping. It's an odd thing to notice, but he does. He watches the way he touches it, his fingers grasping gently at it as he examines it, and then, giving himself an approving little smile in the mirror, he puts on the hat and upturns his coat's collar. Robin's eyes narrow as he takes in the aesthetic, assuming that Leopold was going for some sort of suave, debonair look when instead he looks like a jackass.

Feeling his jaw tensing, he has to look away.

When he was a boy, his father used to tell him that you could tell a lot about a man's values just by noticing the things he cared for. It was a sentiment that never failed him; after all, most people showed their true colors when they didn't know they were being watched—and Leopold Blanchard showed far more care for a god damned hat than he did his wife.

The door is barely closed behind Leopold when he hears the sound of shattering glass, drawing his attention from the front door to the room where Regina stands. It's only when she turns sharply to stare at him that he realizes that he must have gasped.

"I—I'm sorry—"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He swallows. That is a fantastic question. "A delivery," he manages. "No one answered."

"So you just invited yourself in and decided to make yourself comfortable."

"Trust me, M'lady, I am not comfortable."

For a moment, she just stares at him, her eyes wide and her jaw tight—and for a moment, he thinks she's about to tear into him. But instead, she looks away, embarrassed. "So, you heard—"

"I was only looking for someone to—" He stops abruptly. There's no excuse for why he's standing in her house, eavesdropping on an obviously private conversation. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

Reigna nods, but as he turns away, she reaches for him, her fingers just barely touching the fabric of his coat. "Was it a large order?"

"Just under double of the usual."

Regina blinks. She has no idea what that means. "Can I help?"

Robin's lips press together as he takes her in; he doubts she'd be much help, but it seems insulting to actually tell her that—and she's been insulted enough for one evening. "I can come back tomorrow," he says instead.

"Oh—"

"Unless—"

"I could try." A little grin tugs up at one corner of her mouth and she offers a shrug. "It seems like this was our mistake, and I'd hate for you to have to come back because I dumbly gave the staff the night off."

"That explains why no one answered."

"No one told me anything was due, and… as you heard, my husband has plans for the evening."

"And how about you?"

He grimaces. He didn't mean that to come out the way that it sounded—he didn't mean it to sound as if he were asking her if she were free, like he was trying to win a date—but she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Apparently, I'm helping you lug in crates of liquor."

Regina doesn't give him a chance to say anymore. Instead, she brushes past him, her shoulders squaring as she strides out of the room. For a moment, he just stands there—dumbly wondering if he should follow—and then, a little grin tugs up at the corner of his mouth. He's not quite sure he'll ever have her figured out.

By the time he catches up with her, she's standing at his truck, her breath puffing out impatiently in front of her.

He hesitates a moment, looking her up and down, noting her impractical dress and heels, but when her brow arches as if to ask what he's waiting for, he says nothing. Instead, he steps around her and opens the back of his truck.

She steps up beside him, surveying the crates, her fingers rubbing over the painted on "Fine China" as her brow arches and a little laugh escapes her—then, just as he's about to tell her to be careful, she reaches for a crate and lifts it, looking him square in the eye.

"Where do we normally store them?"

He blinks. "Um, the cellar, but I'm sure, given the circumstances, the kitchen would be—"

"If they go in the cellar, then they'll go in the cellar," she tells him just before hauling the first of the heavy crates into the house—and again, he feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For the better part of the next hour, they transfer the liquor from the back of his truck to the Blanchards' cellar. Finally, when the last crate comes in, she offers a triumphant little laugh before turning to look at him and smiling.

He blinks and feels his cheeks warm, suddenly glad for the dim lighting and the stubble covering his cheeks.

He's not sure that he's ever seen her smile—not genuinely, at least—and it lights up her whole face. Her eyes seem brighter and warmer, her skin a bit rosier, and her demeanor completely changed. It's exquisite and extraordinary.

Regina lifts the top from one of the crates and reaches in, pulling out a bottle of French wine. He watches as she reads the label, biting down on her lip before her eyes cast upward to meet his.

"Would you… like a glass?" she asks. "After all the trouble we put you through, it only seems fair."

"You pay me well."

Her smile fades and immediately, he wishes he'd said anything else. "You mean my husband pays you well."

"Isn't it… one in the same?"

"No."

He sighs and shifts awkwardly on his feet. "Well, regardless, it's worth my trouble."

"I don't mean… doing whatever it is that you do to get this for us, though," she tells him. "I was referring to the trouble you went to tonight."

"Ah, well, in that case, all's well that ends well," he tells her gently. "It all worked out."

She nods, but looks unconvinced. "Then consider it a celebratory drink."

Hesitantly, he looks to the bottle and then back to her, wondering what she's really asking. Her big brown eyes are wide and glistening, her jaw's trembling slightly. Still, despite the sudden show of vulnerability, her eyes hold his, and he finds himself captivated, unable to look away from her. It's odd really, the way she hooks him, the way she makes him want to stay, and how in just a few weeks he'd gone from wanting nothing to do with her to wanting to comfort her.

He doesn't fraternize with customers. He doesn't get attached to them. He doesn't care about them. Yet as he stands there, somehow a simple, _I'm sorry, no,_ seems so impossible.

He shifts his weight as he considers the harm that one drink would do—but then, he considers how easily one drink turns into two and then three, and as he stares at her, he can't help but think she's asking for more than a celebratory drink. He could be wrong—maybe he's projecting, his father did also tell him he had something of a hero complex and maybe it's him who wants more—but it doesn't matter. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stay. It was late and Roland never slept well in his absence.

"I'm sorry to say that I can't," he finally says as he breaks her gaze. "I need to get back to my boy."

She swallows hard and offers a half nod as she musters a sad little smile. "Of course. I—how stupid that I didn't consider that." He wants to disagree—at least that her invitation was stupid—but her whole face changes as she puts on an aloof little smile. "Another time then?"

Gently, he grins and nods. "Perhaps I can take a rain check?"

"Of course you can," she tells him, her smile brightening in an effort to hide her disappointment.

On that note, he leaves her, possibilities swirling through his head as he makes his way up from the cellar and gets into his truck—and when he pulls away from the Blanchards' house, he feels a little twinge of guilt.


	4. Chapter 4

He'd left her standing in the cellar holding onto a bottle of wine, and feeling like an absolute fool.

Of course, she couldn't blame him, especially not after what he'd overheard between her and Leopold… but still, she'd hoped that he'd stay, if only so that she didn't have to spend the night alone.

She returned the bottle to its place in the crate and made her way upstairs, shivering at the eerie quiet.

Giving the household staff the night off seemed like a brilliant idea when she planned it; after all, she was gearing up for a big fight with Leopold and she knew that. Inevitably, there would be things said that she didn't want repeated. She wasn't sure who among the house staff enjoyed leaking tidbits of information about her to whomever would listen—and truly, she couldn't understand why anyone cared to hear any of it—but she'd long ago stopped trying to figure it out. So, in moments where she couldn't afford an audience, the staff found themselves with an unexpected night off. It was simply easier this way, and though blowups between her and Leopold couldn't always be predicted, this tactic could at least curb the frequency of the stories that would inevitably be spun.

But that afternoon it had worked.

Preemptively, she'd breezed into the servants hall, spinning a story about uncharacteristically forgetting dinner plans with an unnamed friend. No one asked for more details and no one pointed out the fragility of her story—they had no reason to. So, instead of beginning to prepare dinner, they prepared for a night out.

She'd picked this particular night with purpose. Mary Margaret was set to have dinner with David Nolan and his mother, and Leopold had post-dinner plans, so if the conversation went awry (as she knew that it would), it wouldn't drag on and on through the night. It was the perfect opportunity to bring up Henry coming home for Christmas.

It'd been more than a year since she'd seen her son, and phone calls between them were few—school policy dictated that—and though they wrote letters, Henry was still too young to write a proper letter with any sort of regularity. Most of her communication with Henry came through Mal—and for that, she was eternally grateful—but still, it did nothing to dull the ache that now permanently resided in her chest.

Going into the conversation, she had expected a lacklustre response from her husband; after all, he'd never had much interest in Henry. At least on some level (as he'd never gotten confirmation otherwise), Leopold believed that Henry was his son, so she hoped that she could appeal to him as a parent—and if not as Henry's parent, as Mary Margaret's, as there wasn't anything that Leopold wouldn't do for his daughter.

Mary Margaret had always been fond of her baby brother, and annoying as it was when Henry was a baby, Mary Margaret wanted to be involved in every detail of his life. From feedings to diaper changes to playing with him for hours on end, Mary Margaret was exuberantly there. She'd been devastated when Henry went off to school and still kept in touch with her brother through occasional letters. So when Regina first decided that she wanted Henry to come home for the holidays, she planted the seeds with Mary Margaret.

With her step-daughter as her ally, she'd gone into the conversation hopeful—but quickly, her hopes were slashed. Leopold scoffed at the mere idea; she hadn't even had the chance to bring up how happy Mary Margaret would be to see him or that it was their last Christmas together before Mary Margaret got married and started a family of her own.

Her ears rang and her cheeks were hot, her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists as she willed herself not to cry. Petulantly, she'd suggested that she could go to Henry, and again, Leopold dismissed the idea. She hated him and in that moment, she could feel that hatred eating away at her core—but she was trapped. There wasn't anything she could do or say to change it—and he knew that. He'd been so smug as he left her, knowing that he'd gotten under her skin and knowing that he'd won.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she looks down the hall toward her bedroom, thinking a bath might be a nice way to take the edge off of her mood—but that also sounds like a reward she hasn't quite earned.

So, instead, she turns in the opposite direction, making her way toward Leopold's study where the household phone resided. Taking in a labored breath, she sat down, momentarily hesitating to look at the clock on the wall—it was just after midnight which meant that it was just past four in the morning in London. Mal would be asleep. After a few minutes of debate, she picked up the phone and asked the operator for a connection to London—and all the while, she held her breath at the thought of being alone with her thoughts if Mal didn't answer.

To her relief, Mal did answer—albeit groggily—and for the next half an hour or so, she recaps her fight with Leopold. Every now and then, she could hear Mal on the other line, starting to say something, then stopping, or making little noises to express her loathing of Leopold. For the most part, though, she just let her vent. And really, that's what she needed—someone to simply listen.

"I don't understand. Regina, _you _have money. You're richer than that bastard. You can just—"

"No," she cut in. "You're blissfully unaware of the rules of marriage."

"Enlighten me."

Regina sighs. They've been through this before; but rules were never Mal's strong suit. So, again, Regina explained that when they married, her wealth became Leopold's. It all sat in a vault at the bank that he personally oversaw, and his signature was required to access it. If Leopold said she could dip into it, for any reason, she could. But if he said she couldn't, his word was final.

"You know I'll give Henry a happy Christmas," Mal says, her voice gentler than it was before. "He—"

"What if he can't come to you?"

"Why couldn't he? He always does for school breaks."

"Leo mentioned something about him needing extra tutoring."

"It's not Catholic school. Those teachers will go home for the holiday, too."

"Perhaps—"

"The headmaster likes me. I'll talk to him."

Pressing her eyes closed, Regina nods and draws in a shaky breath. "I hate this arrangement."

"I know you do."

"When I picked that school, I thought—"

"We both did."

"Well, you might, but—" Her voice stops as she thinks about Henry and the morning she'd left him at the school, promising to visit often and promising that he'd have so many friends and adventures, he'd barely have time to miss her. "What if he thinks I don't lo—"

"Don't you dare say that, Regina," Mal warns. "Henry knows you love him."

She doesn't reply. She's not so sure that he does.

"Regina. He knows."

"Well, regardless, I just… figured I'd let you know that you don't have to buy a ticket or—"

"I could still buy him a ticket. Leopold Blanchard doesn't control my money."

She smiles a bit wistfully at that. She'd considered asking. "But what would Henry be coming home to? A father who would prefer he not be there?" She can hear Mal's voice hitch at the back of her throat, biting back her words. "It just… wouldn't be fair to Henry. He'd pick up on the tension."

"Arthur is coming to visit. He leaves on Tuesday."

"He told me," Regina says. "I was planning on packing up a trunk of things for Henry to send—"

"You could put yourself in a trunk," Mal says, sounding both playful yet serious. "He'd let you out as soon as you boarded the ship. You wouldn't be stuck in there the whole voyage."

At that, Regina can't help but laugh. "That's… ridiculous and it'd absolutely get him kicked off the ship."

"Suppose you just had to stay in the trunk until you got to the dock, and he actually had a boarding pass waiting for you. That could—"

"You're very attached to this odd plan."

Mal laughs. "This is what you get for calling at such an ungodly hour."

"Fair."

"When did you last see Henry?" she asks, shifting the conversation.

"Last Saturday."

"How was he?"

"Happy," Mal says gently. "You weren't wrong in assuming he'd be surrounded by friends."

She smiles, but her throat tightens. "That's… that's good."

"He taught me how to play this card game one of his friends taught him where you have to grab cards quickly. I think I jammed my finger."

Again, she smiles as tears well in her eyes. "Did he… mention me? Or—"

Mal sighs. "I mentioned you."

"And?"

"We made a Christmas card for you. He wrote a sweet little note."

"Well, I'll be eagerly awaiting that." There's a long pause between them after that, and she can tell there's something that Mal isn't saying. "I made up a care package the other day. I found a copy of _Treasure Island_ and I bought him some winter things—a hat, a scarf, and some gloves—and I want to get some of that hot chocolate he likes so much. I'm hoping to mail it next week." Drawing in a breath, she thinks of the note she nearly wrote, alluding to the possibility of the visit she'd been so sure that she could arrange. "I know it's not the same as—"

"He's used to this arrangement. All his friends are in similar situations."

"Are they?" she scoffs. "His friends have fathers who want nothing to do with them?"

"Well, to be frank, Henry's not exactly in that situation, either, is he?" Mal sighs. "What I meant is that none of his friends have very much contact with their families during the school year. He doesn't feel different or realize there's anything unusual about his circumstances."

Regina swallows the lump at the back of her throat. "You know, it's probably selfish to say—"

"Something tells me that it's not."

"I… I know that Henry's okay where he is. He's well cared for at that school, and he has you nearby. He's always telling me about his friends and teachers, and though I'm not at all convinced that this whole arrangement isn't going to result in him hating me later on in life, I can concede that it's working right now."

"But?"

"But, I just… Mal I am so lonely. I miss him so much."

"Of course you do."

"Henry was… well he's all I had."

"You have me."

"And you're not here."

"You have Arthur. He's your friend."

"He tolerates me because he's afraid of you."

"So?"

"It's not the same."

"I'll let him know he has to do a better job of faking it."

Regina laughs softly and shakes her head. "Perhaps if Arthur were around more, I wouldn't be throwing myself at Leopold's…uh, supplier."

She bites down on her lip, suddenly very aware that their line is not secure and any operator could be listening in. And while her dirty laundry is bad enough, she wouldn't want to out Robin or say anything that could get him into serious trouble.

"Leo's supplier?"

"Yes, um… you know how he loves to throw parties. It's insane how much… shrimp and caviar we go through."

"Ah, of course," Mal murmurs, clearing her throat. "But that's not the part that I needed clarity on, Regina." She pauses as if waiting for the details to be filled in, but when Regina offers nothing in reply, she sighs loudly. "You said something about throwing yourself at him?"

"That… might be a little strong."

"Explain."

Regina feels her cheeks warm. "I asked him to stay for… a bite to eat. I knew he wouldn't. I'm not even sure why I asked. Apparently, I enjoy the embarrassment of being rejected."

"Rejected? Regina, _that _is probably a little strong, too."

Regina's eyes roll. "I… was pathetic."

"Can you, perhaps, tell me what happened without the self-deprecation? It's far too early to splice apart the story from your own, and likely inaccurate, interpretation of it."

"I told you. I asked him to stay for a bit. He declined."

"But you wanted him to stay."

"I wouldn't have asked him if I didn't."

"Why?"

Biting at her bottom lip, Regina curls the phone cord between her fingers. "I… don't understand what you're asking exactly."

"Why did you want him to stay? You usually steer clear of anyone having anything to do with Leopold."

"He's… different."

"Is he now?" Mal laughs, obviously amused. "Tell me more."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Is he cute?"

"Mal, we're not twelve—"

"People over the age of twelve do still have the ability to notice another person's attractiveness. In fact, I'd say that after the age of twelve, that ability gets a bit sharper."

"Mal—"

"Your hesitation tells me that you do find him attractive."

"Well yes, but—"

"What's attractive about him?"

Regina's eyes roll and her cheeks flush, and possibly for the first time since Robin left, she's glad that there's no one around to see her blushing like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. "He… smells like forest."

Mal laughs out in a burst, and in spite of herself, Regina can't help but smile. "Oh my god—"

"He does! And it's… quite pleasant, actually."

From there, she goes into a full recap, recounting her first few interactions with Robin Locksley—from her snapping at him on the first meeting to the letter of apology that _he'd _written to _her_. At that, she hears Mal laugh a little, but she continues on, explaining that there's just something about him that she likes. It's probably that he was willing to challenge her and it's probably also in part that each time they've interacted, they've started with a clean slate. He doesn't seem to be keeping score and he doesn't seem to be overly influenced by what he thinks he knows about her—and she'd realized that night that he treats her like a person, not a possession or a bother, and that was something so incredibly rare. Her stomach flutters as she moves on from the heavier details of their interactions to tell Mal about Robin's curly-haired, dimple-cheeked little boy and what a good father Robin seems to be.

"I don't quite know why I'm so drawn to him, but—"

"I do," Mal says flatly. "He's the anti-Leopold."

Regina's eyes narrow with curiosity. "What?"

"He's everything that your husband isn't."

She hadn't really considered it that way, but it did make sense; after all, it was that same notion that initially drew her to Daniel—and upon that realization her mood fell.

She doesn't respond to Mal's observation, instead letting herself get lost in her own thoughts.

There was no denying that she was lonely. That's what initially drew her to Daniel and now, that was what was driving her to Robin. The difference was that she now recognized the pattern. Daniel had been fully aware of what it would mean to be involved with a married woman, but they'd been naive to think things could end well for them. The rules that bound her to her husband were cruel, but clear. She didn't have a way out, and fate didn't hesitate to remind her of that.

"Regina? Are you still on the line?"

"Yes."

She hears Mal swallow. "So, are you going to… have a second go at inviting him to stay the next time you see him? You obviously like him, and it doesn't sound like he _rejected_ you. It just sounds like tonight didn't work out. Sometimes things don't when they're spur of the moment. Maybe something more planned out—"

"I'm married."

"So?"

"Mal—"

"All the women I date are married."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is."

"It's only different because you think you deserve to be lonely."

There's a long pause.

It's not untrue, but she isn't the only person who mattered—and besides that the idea of a love affair was all in her head. Or maybe it was in Mal's. Regardless, though, it didn't matter. It wasn't real.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, who is she?"

Robin blinks. "What?"

"Who is she?" John repeats, an annoying smirk stretching across his lips.

"I don't know what—"

"Oh, come on," John cuts in, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table opposite Robin. "I've known you your whole goddamn life, and I know that look. So tell me. Who is she?"

For a moment, Robin just stares, not really sure what to say. Of course, there is a _she _he's been thinking about, but not in the way that John seems to think; and even if he did confide, what is that he'd have to say?

"Is it because I'm Marian's brother? Is it weird to—"

"What? No. No, it's… it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"Other than the fact that I don't know what you're talking about?"

John's eyes roll. "You're pining."

"I'm not pining over her—" His voice halts just a half second too late and he grimaces down at the glass of whiskey he's been nursing as though it betrayed him. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" John asks gingerly, grinning like he picked the winning horse at the track. "And now that we've established that there _is_ a her, who is she?"

Robin hesitates. Before the Blanchards were his customers, they were John's, and unlike Robin, John has no qualms about being friendly with his customers.

"I was thinking about Regina Blanchard."

John blinks. He looks disappointed.

"What do you know about her?"

For a moment, John just stares at him with a hesitant gaze, obviously not wanting to encourage whatever he thinks is going through his friend's head, but clearly already feeling guilty about withholding the information he does have.

"She's… different," he murmurs carefully. "She's got walls up around her, and is very selective of who she lets in, and the rules constantly change."

"I noticed the walls—"

"Mm," John nods, his eyes narrowing. "Don't get too close, you never know when the moat is suddenly going to fill and the sharks start to circle."

"No one keeps sharks in a moat."

"That's not the point."

"I know," Robin murmurs, taking a long sip of his whiskey. "I just… there's something about her…"

"Well, she's gorgeous. That could be that something."

"She is," Robin admits. "But, it's not that. She said something to me the first time we met, and I can't quite shake it."

"What did she say?"

"That she only lets people see what she wants them to see." He looks up, watching as John considers that—and watching as John dismisses it. "It's… more than just... rumor control or whatever, it's… her whole personality." He grimaces as he fumbles with his words, not quite sure how to explain it in a way that doesn't make her seem manipulative or conniving. "Never mind."

"No, I… I want to understand," John says, looking a bit uncomfortable as he offers a shrug and adds, "You… seem to like her."

"I do like her," Robin replies, the ease of that statement surprising even him. "She's like a puzzle."

John's eyes narrow again. "That's… not necessarily a quality you'd want in a girlfriend."

"Who said anything about wanting her to be my girlfriend?"

Suddenly, John's eyes are wide and his brows arched. "That lost puppy dog look you had when I first came in."

Robin frowns. "I like her. I'd like to be her friend, but not only does she live in a world that's completely different from the one you and I live in, she's also _married—_"

"You sound disappointed."

"What?"

"That she's married."

Robin hesitates, drawing his glass of whiskey up to his lips and taking a long sip. The more he got to know Leopold Blanchard, the less he liked him. He was oblivious to the real world. He was one of the few men who came through the war unscathed. He was too old to fight and too young to have a child who'd have been called up. He went through the war years selling bonds and making a killing off of others' need to do their part, all the while continuing on with his extravagant parties to "brighten up the mood" as if one night of fun could even put a bandage on the stress and worry that came with someone you love being sent to the , when the war ended everything went back to the way it was—the pain and suffering so many faced meant nothing to him.

Then, there was Regina.

Over the course of the last three months, he'd gotten a few rare glimpses into the Blanchards' marriage, and each new glimpse that he got seemed uglier than the last.

Leopold loved to be the center of attention. He loved to be loved. He was good-natured while the booze was flowing and he fawned over his friends and guests, stopping at nothing to ensure they were enjoying himself. He was known to give expensive gifts—one of the house's footmen had hinted that he'd be getting a gold pocket watch that Christmas—and he loved to play the part of the hero, making a big show of giving out loans to people he knew could never pay them back and making large donations so long as his name was prominently displayed in the inevitable thank you that would follow. Some of it was probably genuine—especially where his daughter was concerned—but after getting to know him in a less-than-public setting, he saw another side to him. His was distant, cold, and aloof, and if you couldn't advance his reputation, he had no use for you.

That was his problem with Regina.

She did nothing for Leopold's image.

For so long, the attributes Robin had hated about Regina Blanchard were likely the things she was obliged to do on her husband's behalf—the press, the charities, the opulence—because the more he got to know her, the less fitting those things seemed. Even that first meeting between them when she'd snapped now seemed different. Not only had she offered a profuse and seemingly sincere apology, she hadn't been short or curt since then; and it wasn't until now that he wondered why she, the lady of the house and the supposed hostess, was sent to receive an order in the place of a footman or the butler.

In the handful of times he'd encountered both Blanchards, Leopold barely acknowledged his wife's presence; and when he did and didn't think that anyone was watching, he was cruel. The way he spoke to her that night was likely something of the norm. Regina didn't seem surprised by his tone and the desperation in her voice implied that his reaction was expected. She was used to it.

"You know," John says, looking him square in the eye. "Regina Blanchard is known to have her affairs. I know that's not your style, but—" His voice trails off and he shrugs. "I'm just saying—"

"I don't want to have an affair with her, I just…" His eyes close as his voice trails off and his head falls back. "I was just thinking about her and… I just… I feel for her. She's trapped, and she's lonely…" Again, his voice trails off as he looks up. "Did you know that she has a son?"

"Vaguely."

"Did you ever see him? The Blanchards were your customers for a long time. Did you ever meet the boy?"

John shakes his head. "I think he was already away at school by then."

"He's eight."

"I know."

"I can't imagine having to send Roland—"

"_Have_ is a strong word. They didn't _have _to send that boy to school an ocean away."

"I said that to her once."

"You said _that _to Regina?"

Robin nods. "She said she was trying to protect him—and I felt like an absolute heel." John's lips purse as if there's something he's holding back, something he wants to say but isn't sure he should. "What?"

"Well, you know… about the boy…"

Robin's eyes narrow, remembering the rumor about the Major General Regina had allegedly had an affair with. "What about him?"

"His father—"

"Isn't Leopold Blanchard?"

"So, you do know."

"Not really. I heard the same rumors you did. Arthur Pendragon—that was the name of the Major General who turned up in all the sordid stories, wasn't it?—the soldier from the Red Cross—"

"No," John cuts in. "Not him." Taking a breath, he shakes his head and sighs. "Do you remember Tinka? The spunky blonde girl I dated for a while? Just before the war—"

"Yes. I thought you'd marry her. Marian and I really liked her, too."

"Well, that is a story for another time, but… she was a maid at the Blanchards' house for awhile."

"Ah—"

"About nine years ago."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh."

"The Blanchards fought a lot back then, and apparently, Regina was spending a lot of time at the country club."

"That doesn't seem so unusual."

"At the country club... in the stables... with a particular stableboy." John grins tightly. "Regina took riding lessons from him. Jumping fences and going up difficult trails, that sort of thing."

Robin shrugs. That doesn't seem so unusual. "So? Lots of women ride horses competitively these days."

"Except that Regina's been riding horses longer than she's been walking."

"So, you think—"

"I know," John says. "His name was Daniel. He was a nice enough guy, and Tink was one of the maids assigned to Regina's room. She saw and heard things—"

"I can't blame her for having affairs," Robin says, his voice piquing defensively. "Her husband is horrible to her. You should have heard him tonight."

"And I'm not blaming her. I'm just… stating what I know."

"Right—"

"So, it makes sense that she'd send the boy away to protect him. That part of her story checks out."

Robin nods, considering it. It's a story that makes far more sense than the story about Arthur Pendragon, the Major General Regina was friendly with throughout the war and who from the outside looking in, was very happily married to a woman named Guinevere. They had a fairytale-like life together—a nice house, two beautiful children—he'd be an idiot for throwing it all away.

"And, uh… I guess you could say that's why Tink went away, too."

"What?"

"Regina fired her just before she went to Newport. It was the summer her son was born." John smiles, but his eyes seem sad—and finally, it seems like he has an actual concrete reason to dislike Regina Blanchard. "She knew too much."

"Do you ever hear from Tink?"

"No," he says. "The last I heard from her was the day she left. Her parents came over from Norway. They all started a new life in New York, or maybe it was Boston—" He shakes his head. "I was too upset that things ended so abruptly. I didn't really care to listen."

"I'm sorry—"

John sighs and shrugs, brushing it off. "It's how life goes." He pauses for a moment, again hesitating. "You know, uh… Daniel didn't make it home. He was captured and held as a prisoner of war, and… well... he didn't make it. He was a good guy, though. He and I shared a drink or two before shipping out."

Robin doesn't say anything; instead, he finds himself wondering how Regina's life might have been different had Daniel lived, wondering if the two of them had some sort of scheme for after the war, and thinking of how heartbreaking it must've been for her to have it all go up in smoke, leaving her trapped and alone to guard what was left of the life she wanted for herself.

He understands that.

He lived it himself.

"So, she lost her… lover, for lack of a better word, and now she's had to all but give up their son."

John nods. "Seems that way."

Robin smirks. "But you still don't like her."

"You don't have to like someone to empathize with them."

"Fair."

"And as much as I hate to admit this, you and Regina Blanchard aren't so different."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh, no?"

"No," John says, shaking his head. "You're both living in the fog of grief." A smirk edges over his lips. "Who knows? Maybe the two of you could help bring each other out of it."

"I'm surprised you're encouraging that."

John shrugs. "But what does it matter?" His smirk brightens as he stifles a laugh. "You're not interested, right?"

Huffing, he sits back in his chair folding his arms. The sensible response would be to say that he isn't interested in Regina Blanchard because there were a thousand reasons that he shouldn't be interested in her—but he was.

He'd be lying if he said that he didn't think about her often—that after every interaction he played it again and again in his head. That was what spurred him to write that apology to her and now that he considered it, that was what spurred him through the Blanchards' empty house that night. He'd wanted to find her. He'd wanted to see her. Needing to drop off the crates of liquor was just the excuse he'd told himself—and now, he found himself wishing that he'd stayed. After all, Roland was fast asleep when he'd arrived home, cuddled up underneath his blankets and snoring lightly, and the build that began prickling at his core when he'd pulled away from the house, leaving her alone and upset, was practically eating him alive. He should've stayed for that drink, if only to give himself the peace of mind in knowing that she was okay.


	6. Chapter 6

Stepping outside, Regina looks up to see fluffy snowflakes swirling down from the clouds.

Henry loved the snow.

She smiles wistfully as she remembers him twirling in it, his arms outstretched and his little face turned up toward the white sky. He smiled and laughed as he spun around, begging her to twirl with him—and as always when it came to Henry, she couldn't resist.

He'd love a day like today.

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she refuses to let a happy memory turn sad. So instead of lingering on it and letting herself remember, she pushes it back and heads to the lot behind the school where her car is parked.

Tucking her chin down, she burrows into her coat and she trudges along, only stopping and looking up to fish her keys from her pocket.

And that's when she notices Roland Locksley sitting on one of the swings. His little feet dangle above the ground and his little mitten-encased hands hold onto the ropes as he watches it snow. Despite being all alone, he doesn't look particularly worried or perplexed, and for a moment, she hesitates, reminding herself that it's not her place to pry.

But as she holds her keys and the wind picks up, a million different scenarios swirl around in her head—from why he's sitting on the swing all alone to what might happen if he stays there—and before she can second guess her decision to make this her business, she walks toward him, calling out his name.

Roland looks up—there's no recognition in his eyes, but he also doesn't look afraid.

"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" Roland swallows, looking down at his feet and then back up at her, likely wondering if she's someone he can trust. "I, um—I know we haven't met, but I work at the school sometimes, and I know your dad. My name—"

"Did my papa send you?" Roland asks in a burst, his eyes wide as he looks up at her. "He didn't come for me."

"Oh, no… no, he didn't send me to get you."

Roland's face falls. "Oh."

"So, he's… he's running late?"

"I think so," Roland says, his gloved hands rubbing at the chains holding up the swing. "Usually when he can't he sends my Uncle John."

"But he didn't come either, huh?"

Roland shakes his head, biting down on his lip as he looks back to her, and it's clear that he's worried. "This has never happened," he adds quietly. "Someone _always _comes for me. He never forgets."

At that, her stomach tightens. What Robin does for work is dangerous and illegal; and while it's a well-kept and open secret, she has no doubt that the clientele he's accumulated over the years would readily turn their backs on him should he ever be caught, or even to deflect consequences for themselves if they were ever caught. Leopold wouldn't hesitate, and neither would any of his friends.

"Would you mind if I stay with you for a bit?"

Roland grins and she takes that as her response.

He doesn't say anything as she sits down on the swing beside him, crossing her ankles as he she steadies herself and tries to think of something comforting to say.

"You know, I have a son—"

"Is he my age?"

"No, he's a little older than—"

"Does he go here?" Roland asks. "Sometimes I get to play kickball with the bigger kids at recess," he tells her. "It's because I'm such a fast runner. I can bunt the ball _and _still make it to first base _without _sliding."

She grins at Roland's enthusiasm. "My son goes to school in London."

"England!?"

"Yes—"

"My papa comes from there," he says. "But I've never gotten to go." He frowns a little. "Papa says it's too far."

"It is far," Regina admits. "And I don't get to go as much as I'd like to."

"So, you don't get to see your son much?"

She shakes her head, her stomach tightening a bit as she considers that. "Not nearly as much as I'd like."

"I'd miss my papa if I had to go to school far away."

Taking a breath, she musters as smile. "We write letters and I send him things. Sometimes we talk on the phone—"

"What kinds of things?"

"Books that he likes. Toys, sometimes." She considers it, thinking of her last care package. "I bought a canister of hot chocolate to send the last time—"

"I _love _hot chocolate!"

She can't help but laugh at Roland's emphatic declaration. His whole face lights up as he smiles, his dimples sinking sweetly into his cheeks as he sits up a little straighter on the swing. "My son likes his with whipped cream and cinnamon."

"I've never tried that. Papa usually puts marshmallows in mine."

Hesitantly, she looks away from Roland, staring down the desolate road that leads up the school and then turning her eyes up to the gray sky. At some point, she was going to have to make a decision about what to do if Robin didn't arrive soon—after all, they couldn't sit on these swings waiting for very much longer. It was going to get darker and colder, and if Robin didn't come for him, that likely meant...

She takes a breath.

She won't let herself continue with that thought.

"You know," she begins, decidedly pushing away her worry. "I haven't sent the package yet." Roland blinks, not quite following her lead. "I bought two canisters of the hot chocolate. I was going to save the second one and send it later in the winter, so… if you'd like to try it…"

Again, Roland lights up, and she can't help but laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah. We can heat up the water in the school."

Roland looks to the schoolhouse, then back to her. "But no one's there. How will we get in?"

A grin twists onto her lips as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out her keyring. "I told you. I work at the school sometimes, and that means I have a key."

Roland hops off of his swing and takes her hand, letting her take the lead. First, they go to her car and open up the box she had prepared to send to Henry. He waits, doing his best to be patient—squirming with anticipation as he sits on the seat beside her—and when she finally unwraps it, he smiles brightly and takes her by the hand, barely giving her time to shut the car door as he tugs her toward the school.

As he leads her around the building, she finds her chest tightening as she thinks of Henry at Roland's age—so happy, eager, and wonderfully exhausting. As she fidgets with the key in the lock, she thinks of her son, remembering how something as simple as a mug of hot chocolate on a snowy day would have delighted him —and she wonders if it still would.

She's lost in thought as she feels the key catch in the lock, and at the same time, she feels Roland let go of her hand—and by the time she looks over, he's already a few feet away, running toward the parking lot as Robin hops down from his truck.

"Papa!"

She smiles a bit wistfully as Robin drops to his knees, letting Roland crash into him before wrapping his arms around the boy as he lifts him off the ground, hugging him tightly as he kisses his messy hair.

Awkwardly, she stands there, watching as Roland pulls back and watching as Robin listens to him talk—and then, she offers a little wave as Robin looks past his son, looking directly to her. He smiles as he looks back to Roland, then, after shifting Roland onto his hip, he starts toward her.

"I'm so glad you arrived safely," she says as he approaches, not sure what else to say. "We were waiting—"

"Thank god you were here, and thank you for staying with him."

Her cheeks flush—and she's glad for the cold that hides it. "Oh, it was no—"

"Please don't say that it was nothing," he interjects. "I was out of my mind with worry, and I—" He stops and shakes his head. "What started off as the minor annoyance of a flat tire turned into a nearly three hour ordeal all the way across town. I had visions of him walking alone and someone snatching him up and—"

"Things happen. He's safe and you're here now. That's what matters."

Robin nods. His lips part, but no words come. She realizes that she should excuse herself and let them go, but she can't quite find the right words for that. So, she stands there, waiting for him to supply them.

"Uh, Roland said something about hot chocolate—"

"Oh!" She laughs and holds out the canister of Cadbury Cocoa. "He was awfully excited about trying this. You should take it. Make him a big cup of it when you get home."

Robin's eyes fall away from hers to look at the bright yellow can. "Oh, I was… sort of hoping that…"

"I told him that you make it special for your son," Roland says, interrupting in a burst.

"Yes," she murmurs, looking between them. "With whipped cream and cinnamon."

He nods, and then a bit sheepishly, he looks to her. "I thought maybe I could cash in that rain check." Her brows arch up as his eyes press closed. "Actually, no. I take that back. I'm sure you have better things to do, and you've already spent enough time—"

"I'll have you know that the twenty minutes I spent with your son was the highlight of my day." She grins as his eyes open. "I don't have any plans this evening, and something tells me you could use a few minutes to decompress, anyway." At that, he laughs and nods as he hugs Roland a little closer. "Come on, let's go in," she says as she turns back to the school house and pulls open the door. "And, you know, cinnamon isn't the only thing I can add to the hot chocolate," she adds.

Her stomach flutters as she leads them inside of the school, grinning as Robin sets Roland down—and immediately, Roland takes him by the hand, showing him an art project of his that's displayed in a little showcase in the hallway as they make their way back to the cafeteria.

"Truly," Robin begins as she unlocks the kitchen door, "I don't know how I can repay you for—"

"There's nothing to repay," she tells him. "I'm glad to have stayed with him. Things happen. Don't beat yourself up over a flat tire, besides—"

"Papa! I sit over there!" Roland interrupts, pointing to a table by the window. "That's my seat for lunchtime!" She watches as Robin looks, grinning gently. "My friends sit at the table, too."

"You're lucky to have a window seat," Robin says—ignoring the little chuckle that escapes her—likely not knowing how else to respond. "Why don't you go and wait over there while Regina and I heat up the hot chocolate."

"Do you know where the spoons and napkins are?" Regina asks, looking to Roland, who nods proudly in response. "Can you get us some? I tend to make a mess of myself whenever I have hot chocolate."

"Me, too," Roland admits as he blushes—and then, he takes off, running toward the cabinet where the napkins and cutlery are kept.

Robin follows her into the kitchen and leans against the counter, watching as she fills a kettle and takes out three mugs—and when she pulls a flask from her purse, he laughs out.

"Don't tell," she whispers. "But this flask is often what gets me through the day."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She grins as she pours a little whiskey into two of the mugs, then returns the flask to her purse. "Regina, I, um… I'm glad we've got a minute to ourselves," he begins. "I just wanted to apologize—"

"I told you, there's nothing to apologize—"

"Not because of today."

She blinks as she looks up from the kettle. "Oh?"

"About the other night?"

Her eyes widen and her cheeks warm, remembering their awkward little exchange in the cellar. "You know, that drink I offered you wouldn't have been my first, or fifth of the night. I was—"

"I worried about you after I left."

Her heart beats a little faster as she looks back to the kettle, pretending to adjust the flame on the stove. "Why's that?"

"You and I both know that I overheard at least some of that fight you had with Leopold—"

"Fights between Leo and I are commonplace. You shouldn't—"

"You were upset and I just left."

"You had to get back to your son. He's always a valid reason for—"

"Roland said that you called me your friend."

She blinks, not realizing that the conversation had shifted. "Oh. Yes, I did. I just didn't know how else to describe our relationship. Calling you the man that my husband gets his illegal booze from seemed… inappropriate, given Roland's age. It seemed easier to simplify, even if I overstated—"

He grins and she catches a glimpse of his dimples. "You didn't overstate anything."

Her brow arches as she looks back to him. "You think of me as a friend?"

He hesitates, but nods. She takes a shaky breath as he holds her gaze, looking at her with such kindness and sincerity. "Yes, and friends don't just leave one another when they're upset, so for that I am sorry."

"It's… probably for the best," she says, shrugging as she remembers the sharp cut of rejection. "I wasn't in a good mindset. I'd have been miserable company and tend to make terrible decisions when alcohol is involved. You likely did me a favor." Turning away from him, she goes to the refrigerator to find the milk—and she can feel his eyes still on her. "But if you insist on making it up to me," she says, turning back to face him. "You can get that powdered sugar off the shelf." She points to it and sighs. "It'll save me the embarrassment of inevitably falling off the counter. Even in heeled shoes, I'm too short to reach it."

He laughs softly and reaches for it, handing her the canister so that she can start making the whipped cream. The kettle whistles as she's still mixing, and without needing to be asked, he turns off the burner and pours the water into the mugs. She brings the bowl of whipped cream to where he stands and he offers her a spoon, letting her stir in the cocoa mix while he adds a hefty dollop of whipped cream to the top of each mug. She grins softly to herself as she reaches for the cinnamon—and when she looks up, she finds that Robin's watching her with a curious look in his eye.

Her cheeks flush. "What?"

"I was just thinking about the first time that I met you."

Her eyes widen. "When I bit your head off?"

"No, when you rightly put me in my place." He grins and reaches for a tray. "I was wrong to make assumptions about you."

He doesn't say any more. Instead, he loads the mugs of hot chocolate onto the tray and carries them off into the cafeteria where Roland sits, waiting by the window and watching as the snow piles up on the window sill.

For awhile, the three of them sit there, talking and sipping the hot chocolate. Roland does most of the talking, telling her everything there is to know about the kindergarten program. He tells her stories about his teacher and his friends, stories about the things he's learning and the games he plays at recess, and she finds herself hanging on his every word.

Every now and then, she catches a glimpse of Robin, sitting back and listening, watching her and Roland talk with a look of amusement on his face, and it's not until they leave when the ache settles into her chest as her thoughts drift back to Henry and all of the moments like this one she'll never have with him.


	7. Chapter 7

For two days, Roland has talked non-stop about Regina.

He talks about how nice she was and how pretty she was, and most importantly, how kind she was to him. Roland tells him again and again how she sat with him on the swings and how she made hot chocolate _just_ for him, and despite the fact that Robin was sitting right there, he recounts every bit of the conversation they had as they drank the hot chocolate. He tells him about how Regina asked him all about his friends and school, asking about the subjects he liked best and the recess games that he liked to play, and each time he retells the story, he asks a million questions, too—why he's never met her if she's one of Robin's friends, if maybe one day when Henry comes home from school if he can come over to play with him, and whether or not he can learn to make hot chocolate like she does.

And the more Roland talks about Regina, the more he finds himself thinking of her—and the more he finds it impossible to think of much else.

Roland wasn't the only one taken by her kindness.

As they all sat at the table, sipping on their cocoa and chatting as they watched it snow, he couldn't help but notice the attention Regina gave to Roland—and that attention came from actual interest. She wasn't kind to Roland to earn points with him. She asked him all sorts of things about his experiences at school, listening carefully and asking follow up questions, genuinely laughing at jokes only a five-year old would think were funny, never once looking at her watch or shifting the conversation to a topic Roland couldn't be involved in. The three of them sat there for well over an hour, and he suspected she'd have gladly sat there an hour more had he not (albeit regretfully) suggested that it was getting late and that it was time to go home. Her interaction with Roland reminded him of the interaction she'd had with the little girl who'd skinned her knee—and the more he thought about the kindness she bestowed to other people's children, the crueler it seemed she was now not allowed to properly mother her own son.

He wasn't sure how he ended up on the road that would lead him to the Blanchards' house—he told himself that he was trying to find a shortcut home after leaving the house of another client who lived across town, but he was well aware that that was a lie—but he found himself slowing down as he approached it, trying to come up with an excuse to stop and see her.

Finally, he mustered a flimsy excuse—something about checking in to see if either of the Blanchards wanted to add anything to his order before he or John trekked up to see Marco later that week—and as he pulled into the driveway, he rehearsed it, hoping it'd convince the butler to show him in and hoping the butler wouldn't default to only asking Leopold.

But when the door opened, instead of saying what he'd rehearsed, he simply asked if Regina was available—and to his surprise, he was let in and led to the drawing room to wait.

After a few minutes, Regina appeared in the doorway, an amused smile stretched across her lips.

"And to what do I owe this surprise?" she asks, breezing into the room and closing the door behind herself. "I barely believed it when Edgar said you'd come."

He offers a sheepish grin. "My son was quite taken by you," he tells her. "And I was hoping for the chance to properly thank you."

"There's really no need. I've told you that."

He nods. "Yes, but you see, what could have easily been one of those defining and scary moments when Roland was faced with the reality that I wouldn't always be there for him turned into an absolutely magical afternoon, and—"

He stops abruptly, thinking of Henry and the age he would have been when Regina dropped him off at boarding school, but Regina looks unfazed—and he wonders if she's truly unbothered or if she's just gotten used to him jamming his foot into his mouth.

"Anyway, we've now had hot chocolate a few times after dinner, and I'll have you know that despite making it just as you did, I can't seem to master the cinnamon to whipped cream ratio."

She grins. "Something tells me he's only saying that to make you keep trying."

Robin laughs. "You spend a few hours with my son and can already read him like a book."

"Henry's the same way," she says easily. "One cookie is never enough to know if he likes it. He always has to have a second, just to be sure."

"I suppose all children are that way."

"Master manipulators?" she asks, her brow arching as her grin turns coy. "Indeed they are."

He watches as she makes her way to the little bar by the fireplace. She pours herself a drink and this time, when she offers to pour a second drink for him, he doesn't decline it.

They settle together in the plush chairs opposite the fire, sharing anecdotal stories about parenthood and the struggles they've faced in doing it all practically alone.

It shouldn't surprise him that so many of their experiences are similar—after all, they're both members of a disillusioned generation marred by the horrors of war and tragedy, a generation that hides their pain behind the glitz and glamor of being labeled as one of "the bright young things" by the generation that came before them.

But, still, it does surprise him—and as Regina tells story after story about Henry's childhood, he finds himself easily putting himself into her position and Roland into Henry's. He laughs at one particularly familiar story, empathizing more than she could ever know as she recounts Henry's once-steadfast and simultaneous belief in monsters beneath his bed and a guardian angel who tucked him in at night but often showed up late, all in an effort to stay up past his bedtime and sneak in an extra story or two.

And as he listens and nods along, he can't help but notice the loving tone of her voice or the way her whole face lights up as she talks about her son.

And he feels a pang of guilt.

When he first met her and made the comment about sending Henry away, it'd come from a place of ignorance. He'd understood better as she'd put him in his place, and he'd understood better when he heard the icy way her husband spoke about the boy—and now, as he listens to stories of Henry's toddlerhood and as he thinks of his own son, his heart aches for all she's had to forfeit, all the memories she'll never have.

"I can't imagine how difficult it is to be without him," he says as her voice trails off.

"What's important is that he's safe, and happy," she says, struggling to maintain her smile. "I miss him terribly and fear that he's going to grow up to resent me, but this is what's best right now."

His eyes narrow. He's not so sure, but he'd never say that aloud. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"In the spring," she tells him, her voice flat. "Mary Margaret wanted a trip for her birthday, and convincing her that London would be more fun than Paris was incredibly easy." She pauses and he can see her thoughts drifting back to spring, likely letting herself relish—or perhaps pine for—the time spent with her boy. "He came home the fall before that," she adds. "Leopold was on a trip out west—the Rockies or… somewhere he could hunt buffalo. I don't remember where he went off to, I was just glad that he did."

Robin hesitates. "He didn't want to see him?"

Regina shakes her head and for a moment, he thinks that might be her reply, and then she sighs. "I'm not sure what he wanted, but at that time, I didn't want them to see one another."

"Ah—"

"I wanted to enjoy the time I had with Henry, not worry about what Leo was thinking or what Leo thought Henry should be doing or—" She stops abruptly, her eyes narrowing a bit. "Henry's a bit of a sore subject between us."

"I gathered."

"He'll have a happy Christmas, though," she says, likely for her own benefit more than his. "Even from afar, I spoil him rotten."

"Well, if you have the means—"

She smiles. "Henry loves Christmas, so I'm not really sure that anything could ruin it for him."

"Does he stay at school?"

"No," she replies easily. "When I enrolled him in school, a friend of mine moved to London."

"Was that just a coincidence or was it planned?"

"Incredibly planned."

"Quite a good friend—"

"The best," Regina agrees, nodding. "And truly, Mallory was always quite desperate to get out of Middle of Nowhere, Maine, so she jumped at the opportunity. London is a much better fit for her."

"Regardless, I'm sure you were glad for it."

"Incredibly."

"And so Henry will spend Christmas with your friend?"

"He will," she murmurs, her eyes cast down to focus on her nearly empty glass. "Mal always gets a big tree and lets him help her decorate it. They string popcorn and dried cranberries for garlands, and make ornaments out of gingerbread. Henry loves it."

"That tree sounds better than what I usually serve for dinner."

She grins as she looks up at him. "The Christmases around here are… fairly nauseating."

"Oh?"

"Leo throws a party," she murmurs, laughing out when he feigns an overly dramatic look of shock. "We do a gift exchange in the morning, then go to church and then…"

"Two hundred people you don't know invade your home."

"Exactly."

"How quaint."

"Mm, and this year, he'll be announcing Mary Margaret's engagement, so it'll be all the more ridiculous."

"And that's why you wanted Henry to come home?"

"In part," she admits. "But also because I miss him terribly, especially around this time of the year—"

"The holidays have a way of doing that," he says, his thoughts suddenly shifting to Marian. "I'm not sure what it is about them that make them harder than all the other days, but—" He sighs, shaking his head, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Some years are harder than others. I don't know why."

"And this is one of the harder years."

"Yes," she tells him, her voice barely audible. "One of the worst."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Momentarily, he hesitates. "Why do you need your husband's permission to go and see your son? You've got more money than most people could ever spend in a lifetime."

"On the contrary, my husband has more money than most people could ever spend in a lifetime. I have a tightly controlled and very closely monitored allowance."

Robin stares at her for a moment, and then his eyes sink closed. What a stupid question. Sure, Regina was married to one of the wealthiest men in the country and everyone knew she'd brought a considerable amount of her own wealth to their marriage—all of which became his as soon as their vows were said.

"I'm sorry, I should have thought that one out," he tells her as his eyes open. "I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't. You're a man. You don't have to think of these sorts of things."

He grimaces, once more feeling like he'd shoved his foot into his mouth. "Regina, I'm—"

"Don't apologize. It was a simple question with an uncomfortable answer."

"Right—"

She laughs softly and takes the last sip of her whiskey—and then, she shifts the conversation back to easier subjects.

He tells her about Roland's first loose tooth, and she laughs when he describes the way Roland closes his eyes and holds his breath and wriggles the tooth, a mix of excited anticipation and dread washing over him.

Regina offers up the suggestion of giving him a piece of salt water taffy, a trick that worked for Henry who'd been overly anxious about his own first loose tooth.

They discuss other childhood milestones before eventually rounding back to Christmas—this time focusing on favorite toys. She does her best not to laugh when he describes a rather frightening stuffed bear John had given Roland two Christmases ago, and simultaneously they start singing the praises of the ever-popular Lincoln Log sets. Regina brightens as she explains that this year, she's sending Henry an erector set—marking his graduation from the wooden Lincoln logs that Roland still enjoys—he tentatively shares his plans to give Roland a Morse Code Telegraph set. Regina's lips press together as he explains that Roland's been eyeing it and dropping clues here and there, and he knows there was a letter to Santa that had to have requested it and as he sighs thinking of the steady beeping and clicking noises he'll likely be listening to non-stop until spring. Regina teases that perhaps Santa can bring him a big bottle of aspirin.

They get caught up in the discussion and before he knows it, the clock is striking three. A bit regretfully, he rises up and explains he has to go to collect Roland from school, and Regina practically shoos him from the drawing room, reminding him that he's already averted one potentially scarring incident at pickup time, he likely won't be so lucky a second time—and then, as he's pulling on his coat and snapping it up, Regina smiles.

"Ten shakes of cinnamon."

He blinks. "What?"

"In the hot chocolate," she says. "I put in ten shakes. It gives it a nice little zing."

"I'll test it out tonight," he tells her as she walks him to the door.

"You'll let me know?" She bites down her lip. "I'm... curious to know if it's actually off or if your kindergartener is conning you."

"I am positive it's the latter—"

At that, she smirks. It most likely is the latter. "This was nice," she tells him, her demeanor turning sincere as she pulls open the door and lets in a gust of cool air that makes her shiver. "I anticipated a rather boring afternoon of looking at a catalogue of flowers for the wedding. This was a far better use of time."

It hadn't really occurred to him that she might actually have other things to do that afternoon, and his visit lasted far longer than he anticipated that it would. "Oh, I… I didn't put you behind or—"

"No, no, no. Not at all," she's quick to say. "I didn't plan on giving the task much thought anyway."

"I enjoyed myself, too."

She hesitates for a moment, then looks up at him. "Then… perhaps we should do it again?"

He nods, reaching into his pocket to fish out his keys. "I'd like that."

"Good," she murmurs—then before he can go, Regina's hand presses to his arm. He looks to her hand, almost as if expecting her to remind him of something. But she says nothing. Instead, she leans in to peck his cheek, giving a sweet little kiss goodbye.

She pulls back and avoids catching his eye as she steps back into the house, leaving him standing on the doorstep feeling a bit dazed—and then, as he's leaving, he sees her in the window, offering a wave as she watches him go.


	8. Chapter 8

Since their impromptu afternoon visit, they've run into each other a handful of times.

One morning she'd been on her way to the bakery across the street to meet David Nolan's mother about a cake for the nearing engagement party. She'd been early, so she'd popped into the little diner where she stumbled upon Robin, sipping coffee and munching on a slice of toast. He'd invited her over and ordered her a cup. Another time, it'd been at the department store—she'd been buying a pack of new socks to send to Henry and he'd been picking up a Christmas gift for John. She'd only meant to say hello and it wasn't until a salesmen informed them that the store would be closing that they'd realized more than an hour had passed and said their sheepish goodbyes as they made their way to the parking lot.

Another time, she'd found him in the park with Roland. Robin stood, nursing a mug of coffee, as Roland played on the monkey bars—crossing them and climbing on top of them, hanging upside down and pulling himself up, showing off tricks that only someone with the flexibility of a small child could ever pull off. For a moment, she'd just stood back and watched as Robin clapped and cheered for him. It occurred to her that she should keep walking—that really, this was a private moment, different from the other times she'd run into him. The other times, he'd been alone; this time, he was spending time with his son. But Roland noticed her and waved, spurring Robin to turn around—and when he did, he smiled warmly and waved her over.

They'd sat together on the swings, talking and watching as Roland played until the dim sky turned from gray to black. When Robin called out to Roland that it was time to go home, she couldn't help her disappointment, just as she couldn't help the hope that bubbled up inside of her when he said that he hoped they'd bump into each other again, that he'd come to enjoy and anticipate their random little meetups.

Then, there was this morning.

Really, the cemetery is the last place she expects to run into him—though that had been naive, considering he, too, had a loved one buried there and she knew that he liked to start his day early with a visit to her grave. But still, as she stands there in the early morning fog at Daniel's grave with cold tears streaming down her cheeks, telling him that once again Henry would not be coming home for Christmas, trying to convey just how much she misses their boy, she doesn't expect to see Robin walking toward her on the cobblestone path—she didn't expect to see anyone.

Yet there he is.

He smiles and waves as he notices her, and when he gets close enough to see her tears, his smile is replaced by a look of concern.

"I'm sorry to interrupt—"

"You're not, really. I'm just—"

"You're upset."

She nods. "I… know he can't hear me, but—"

"I like to think the contrary."

She looks away. That would actually be worse. "I was just telling him about my… lack of plans for Christmas."

"You mean… Henry not coming home?"

Nodding, she looks back to the grave. "I know it's probably silly, but even admitting to a slab of stone what a failure I am as a mother—"

"Stop," he interjects, reaching out and taking her hand. "You are neither a failure as a mother nor is that just a slab of stone." He stops as his fingers wrap around her hand, giving it a tight squeeze, waiting for her to look up at him. "And I'd venture to say that _he _would agree with me on at least my first point."

She watches as his eyes shift to Daniel's gravestone, and she draws in a shaky breath. "I… I don't know. I think he'd be terribly disappointed in me." Robin looks back to her and her eyes cast down. "Sometimes I think I've made every wrong decision."

"I think you've done the best you can."

"You didn't always think that."

"I was wrong."

"Were you?" she asks, looking back up at him. "Or are you just seeing what you want to see?"

Offering a huff and a chuckle, he smiles. "M'lady, you have no idea just how much I tried to see the worst in you." She can't help but smile a little at that, and when he gives her hand a little tug, she lets him lead her away from Daniel's grave. "Come on," he murmurs, "Let's sit down and chat for a minute, hm?"

Together they sit on a little bench beneath a willow tree—and before she's even conscious of it, she's telling him her most intimate secrets. She tells him about how she met Daniel and the love affair that ensued. She tells him about their post-war plans and the life they'd wanted to build together, and she admits how naive she'd been to actually believe any of it was possible. She tells him about the knot that formed in her stomach when Daniel shipped off to Europe and how it seemed to get tighter and tighter with every passing day—and she tells him about the day she learned that Daniel would never be coming back to her.

She stops there, needing a minute to collect her thoughts, a minute to recover and adjust to the ache in her chest that comes whenever she allows herself to relive that period of her life.

"Did Daniel know about Henry?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Daniel is Henry's father, isn't he?"

For a moment, she doesn't reply—and then she nods. "Yes. He is," she admits in a voice that's barely audible. "But, no, he didn't know. He couldn't have. I didn't even know it when he went missing."

"Can I ask you something?"

Looking over at him, she nods. She hadn't really expected another question after his last. None of what they were talking about was comfortable, and most people had a natural tendency to shy away from discomfort.

"You don't have to answer it, either. I'm just… I'm curious."

He hesitates, his question lingering on his lips, waiting for her to acknowledge that she has a choice in it. Then, when she nods, he draws in a breath and asks, "Then why the story about Arthur?"

A bit wistfully, she smiles. "Mal actually cooked that one up."

"Is Arthur aware of it?"

"Yes. Guinevere, too."

"Ah—"

"I was… terrified that Leopold was going to find out that he wasn't Henry's father. I was afraid of what he'd do to me and to Henry."

Robin's brow furrows. He's not quite understanding, but she knows that he won't ask.

So she volunteers the rest of the story.

The story she sold to Leopold was flimsy, at best. There were a million holes in it, and she was sure he'd noticed at least one of them. But he hadn't—at least not then—and she felt like she was only buying time, that sooner or later Leo would start to suspect.

So, Mal spun a story for her.

Arthur agreed to the charade. He'd always been fond of Daniel, and he felt an obligation to his friend's child, and for whatever reason—likely the absurdity of it all—Guinivere agreed to go along with it, too. She and Mal staged an argument knowing that it'd be overheard, and by the end of the week, everyone was whispering about the scandal surrounding the Blanchards.

"Looking back, it was all quite unnecessary."

"But now you're stuck with it."

She nods. "I didn't realize back then what a coward my husband is."

"How so?"

"He'd never do anything or admit to anything that made him look bad—and his wife having a love affair that resulted in a child would most certainly do that."

"Then why send Henry away?"

"Well, when I made the decision to send Henry to school in London, I hadn't quite realized just how cowardly Leo is. I was afraid he'd be cruel to him, that instead of lashing out at me, he'd lash out at Henry. After all, a child is an easier target and far less likely to bite back." She pauses for a moment, momentarily thinking back to the day when she made her decision—the day Leo offhandedly commented that Henry didn't look like him. "So I figured if Henry were out of sight, he'd be out of mind, and for the most part, that's true."

"But at the holidays—"

"It's harder."

"I see."

"If anyone found out that Henry wasn't Leo's, he'd be so embarrassed. He'd never actually admit it, it'd ruin the image he thinks he has to keep up."

"So, the story about Arthur is… to throw suspicion off of Daniel?"

"Not exactly," she murmurs. "You see, the thought of Arthur being Henry's father would absolutely play into Leo's insecurities." She sighs and shakes her head, a sardonic little laugh escaping her. "Leo is envious of everything that Arthur is—he envies his looks, his family, his military career, his reputation around town, his bank account—"

"But everyone knows Leopold Blanchard is loaded."

"But the Blanchard money pales in comparison to the Pendragon money." She smiles ruefully. "Part of the rumor is that Arthur doesn't know that Henry is his son, and given who Arthur is, there's no way he'd deny his own son. He'd claim him, scandal be damned."

Robin's eyes narrow as he considers it. "And if he claimed Henry, Henry would be able to inherit."

"And he'd be richer than Leopold."

"So, he'll never acknowledge it, even if he suspects."

"Not publicly. So as long as the rumor lingers, the less likely Henry and I are to find ourselves destitute."

For a moment, all Robin seems able to do is stare. "Why the hell did you marry such a small, pathetic man?" he finally asks. "I mean, you certainly had to have options."

"I did, at a time" she says, shrugging her shoulders as she looks over at him. "And then his wife died, and I inadvertently made an impression on Mary Margaret, and… the next thing I knew Leopold and my mother had the whole thing worked out."

"You had no say?"

"Oh, I had a lot to say. No one listened to me, though." At that, he scoffs and she enjoys that he finds the whole thing so ridiculous. "My father simply told me to make the best of it. I was marrying a very rich man and would have a comfortable life because of it."

Robin's mouth falls open. "That might be one of the stupidest things I've ever heard."

She nods—and a smile tugs up at the corners of her mouth. She doesn't tell this story to many. She doesn't talk about Daniel to anyone other than Mal and occasionally Arthur and Guinevere, and she most certainly doesn't trust many with her secrets about Henry's paternity.

"Thank you for, um… for listening and for not being critical of—"

"You don't need to thank me for being your friend."

Her head tips to the side. "Is that what we are?"

Robin laughs. "I… I don't quite know what it is that we are. I like you. I like you a lot, and I am not quite sure what to do with that." He shakes his head and his cheeks flush as he fidgets with his fingers. "I'm… I'm not good at this. I don't, um… do this sort of thing."

She grins. "And what exactly does that mean?" Robin suddenly looks like a deer in headlights, and she has to stifle the urge to laugh. "Well, whatever it means, I'm glad for it. I like having you in my life."

She watches as his features relax. "I like having you in my life, too," he tells her. "It's… been a long time since I've had any sort of companion, outside of John—"

"Are John and I the same type of companion?"

Again, Robin laughs—and this time she finds herself laughing with him. "No, no, not quite…" His voice trails off, and his face turns serious, but he says nothing.

She's not naive enough to think that this is easy for him—that any sort of relationship with her would be easy for him. For them to even be friends would be difficult for him to come to terms with; after all, despite growing up in the same small town, they were from different worlds. When they first met, that had been all too obvious. He came with preconceived notions about her and what her life was like, and the walls he had up were there for a reason. But when you tore all of that away, they weren't all that different—and slowly but surely, he'd come to see that.

And slowly but surely it seemed that they were rounding the corner past friendship and moving on to something deeper.

That, too, seemed to be foreign territory for him—and really, it was for her as well.

While she'd had the occasional fling since Daniel, those relationships relied heavily on the physical and really were only a bandaid on her loneliness. Of course, her marriage complicated the ability to move beyond that—after all, who in their right mind would build a life with someone as unavailable as she?

But Robin had a life outside of her.

He had a son to care for and a business to run, and, of course, he had the memory of Marian.

Though she hadn't said anything to him, she wondered if it'd be possible to continue on as they were, if he'd be willing to invest in a relationship that wouldn't necessarily lead to much more.

"You know, Leo is hosting another party tonight."

"I'm aware," he tells her, grinning as he looks over at her. "I spent the better part of an hour lugging crates of liquor into your cellar last night."

"I wanted to come and say hello."

"I wish you would have."

"It would have been awkward with Leopold standing right there."

He nods. "Well, let me tell you, what was more awkward was, every ten minutes or so, him pointing out how heavy the crates looked and then doing nothing to help."

Her eyes roll. "That sounds about right."

"And it'd have been worth the added awkwardness," he tells her. "The days I get to see you are far better than the days when I don't."

He looks at her, and for a moment, neither of them says anything. She finds that her eyes keep falling to his lips and she wonders what it'd be like to kiss him—and then, she snaps herself out of it, not letting herself fall too deep into the fantasy.

"You should come."

"To… your husband's party?"

"Why not?"

Robin's brows arch. "While I am not entirely sure what's happening between us," he says, clearing his throat as his eyes narrow. "Something tells me it would be inappropriate for us to let it play out right in front of him."

She can't help but smirk. "What exactly do you think happens at these parties?"

"Aside from an awful lot of drinking—"

"Just consider it. I usually don't go down for more than a few minutes, anyway."

His eyes narrow. "You don't attend the actual party?"

"I like the music and the drinks, but I'm not fond of the company."

"Interesting."

"There's a private bar upstairs. You can hear the music perfectly through the ducts and there's a nice, warm fireplace. It's… actually quite cozy."

"Cozy—"

"Incredibly so."

His eyes narrow. "I'll think about it."

"Will you?"

He nods and slowly rises. "I have to get Roland to school now," he tells her. "But you have my word that I'll consider it, M'lady."

He tips his hat to her as he walks away, and she smiles as she watches him go, hoping that he really will consider it.

She goes through the rest of her day without giving her invitation much thought.

Mal calls to let her know that she'll be picking Henry up from school the next morning, that her kitchen is loaded with good things to eat and ingredients for all sorts of baked goods to be made, and that when she'd been having her breakfast, the gifts that Regina sent for Henry arrived and were now taking up nearly the entirety of her closet.

They stayed on the phone for a little more than an hour—and when the phone rang a couple of hours later and she was informed _Miss Pendragon is on the line for you… again,_ she'd been elated to find that instead of Mal, Henry had called her. Mal surprised him by picking him up early.

She spent several hours talking to him—listening to stories about his friends at school and his teachers, his classes and the work he was doing, and her chest ached when he exclaimed that his grade in math was now a B- and he hoped he wouldn't need extra tutoring after all. She asked him what seemed like a thousand questions, and she relished in every response—and it wasn't until Henry was yawning that she realized it was nearly dusk and well-past his bedtime.

They said their goodbyes and promised to talk again the next day, and by the time she finally hung up, her maid was tapping her foot and holding her party dress.

Thoughts of Henry swirled through her head the whole time she was being dressed and while her hair was being done, and by the time the party started, she was already late. Of course, Leopold noticed that she was late, but said nothing, simply watching as she buzzed around the room, greeting people she didn't know, thanking them for coming, and wishing them a good time—and by the time she'd made her way around the ballroom, Leopold had lost interest. She's made her showing and been gracious. That was enough. That was all he needed her for.

She slipped away easily and made her way to her favorite hiding place, ready for a good, strong drink—and when she reaches it, she finds the door ajar. Her brows arch as she nears it, a slow smile working its way onto her lips as her stomach flutters, and she remembers the earlier invitation she gave—and when she rounds the corner into the room, Robin is there waiting for her.

"You came!" she calls out, unable to hide her excitement. "I'm so glad!"

He grins gently and nods. "I… thought I had the wrong room, or perhaps that your invitation wasn't sincere—"

"Quite the contrary. It was incredibly sincere." She smiles and closes the door, giving them some privacy. "I sort of had a feeling you wouldn't—"

"Truthfully, I wasn't positive that I was going to come until… well, until I got here. I'd been going over it again and again in my head, trying to decide what to do, what either choice would mean, and then… all of a sudden, here I was."

One brow arches as she looks up and down. "So, you make it a habit of wearing such a well-tailored suit to run evening errands?"

"Not usually, no, but I figured, on the off chance I did come here tonight, I wanted to… uh, to blend in." He offers a sheepish grin. "But instead of coming in with the rest of the guests, I was able to pick the lock on the back entrance."

"Well, you look very nice."

He nods. For a moment, he looks like he's unsure of what to do or say—and then, he crosses the room and pulls her into his arms. Her breath catches in surprise as she looks up at him, then before she has time to process what's about to happen, he kisses her and the orchestra from the party below begins to play.


	9. Chapter 9

Roland grins up at him as he pulls a toasted marshmallow from the fire. "Now what?"

"You need to smush it between two graham crackers," John says, nudging Roland's arm and holding out the cracker. "Kind of like a sandwich."

"When do we use the chocolate?" Roland asks, looking between them before his eyes finally settle on the bar of Hershey's chocolate they bought just for this occasion. "Can't we use that instead of the graham crackers?"

Robin laughs. "Then your fingers would get all messy."

"So?"

John laughs. "Let's get the marshmallow on the cracker, and then we'll worry about the chocolate."

Roland hesitates, but agrees, and lets John show him how to slide the marshmallow from the skewer. Robin grins as he watches Roland—bright eyed and amused—as he watches his uncle closely. He squirms as John reaches for the candy bar, then frowns when John breaks it in half.

"You know, I bet it'd be even better if we used the _whole _bar."

"I knew you were going to say that," John says, shaking his head as a soft chuckle escapes him. "You know, too much chocolate might ruin it."

"That's a lie and you know it."

Robin bites down on his lip, stopping himself from outright laughing as his five-year old son calls his uncle's bluff. "Well, think of it this way, if we save some of the chocolate, you can have two."

John glares as Robin gingerly reaches for another marshmallow to prepare the skewer again for Roland. "You know, I think we're doing this good cop, bad cop thing wrong," he sighs. "I'm the uncle. I should get to be the fun one."

"I don't know where you got that impression."

John's eyes roll, but before he can reply, Roland bites into the s'more. His eyes widen and a little squeal escapes him before he devours the rest of the chocolatey, marshmallowy goodness—and as soon as he's done, he starts preparing the next one. This time, he does the assembly himself and eats it twice as fast—and then, it's time for bed.

Normally Roland's bedtime routine is tedious and exhausting for everyone but Roland. However, on Christmas Eve, it's a breeze. He washes up and brushes his teeth without complaint and puts on the first pair of pajamas Robin pulls out of the drawer, and half way through his bedtime story, he's at least pretending to be asleep.

"Maybe we can convince him that Santa does monthly check-ins or something."

Robin smirks as he sits down in the chair opposite John. "But with our luck, he'd think he got s'mores or some other messy treat for the occasion."

"That seems like a fair trade,"John says, laughing heartily as he pushes a bottle toward Robin. "Homemade ale, compliments of Marco and Eugenia."

He takes the bottle and opens it, taking a long swig. "I… uh, I think I might be having an affair with Regina Blanchard."

John nearly chokes. "You _think_?"

He looks up at him, taking another, shorter swig. "Yeah—"

"How can you possibly be unsure about whether or not you're having an affair with a woman?"

"It's… complicated."

"Or you're just dense."

Robin just stares at him. "About a week ago, she invited me over."

"Invited you over," John repeats.

"Well, Leopold was having one of his parties and she invited me."

"You went to a party that _her husband_ was hosting."

"Not… exactly." He sighs, and explains what happened.

He starts with her invitation early that morning in the cemetery and tells John that he spent the rest of the day considering it. Up until that moment, their encounters could easily be passed off as friendship. But that invitation had simply felt different.

And maybe that's what spurred him to kiss her.

Or maybe it was a culmination of things.

Really, why he kissed her didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd done it, and she'd kissed him back, neither of them pulling away until they were flushed and breathless.

She'd grabbed his hand and led him over to the bar and poured them each a glass of whiskey, and for awhile, they'd just stood at the bar enjoying their drinks and talking. Every now and then she'd give him a look, and every now and then, he'd find himself staring at her lips, wanting to kiss her again. When they'd finished the whiskey, he'd asked her to dance.

Regina came around the bar and offered him her hand, and he'd pulled her close before they started to sway. He's not sure how they lasted through the entirety of a song before he kissed her again, but it wasn't long before he found himself in an armchair with her straddling his lap as they kissed.

They stayed in that armchair for the majority of the night, cuddled up together as they shared drinks and talked, and no matter which way their conversation went, it always somehow led to another kiss.

She'd asked him to stay with her and it killed him to say no; but, of course, he'd wanted to be there when Roland woke up in the morning, and of course, she understood.

"She asked me to come to their party tonight," he murmurs, his eyes shifting to the clock. "But I told her I wouldn't be able to make it."

"When did she invite you?"

"As I was leaving the party last week."

"Have you talked to her since then?"

He sighs. "No. I told her this week is always nuts for us and—"

"You really are that dense. My god."

"What? We are busy and it's Christmas Eve. I can't leave—"

"Roland? He's sleeping."

"I know, but—"

John sighs and his eyes press closed. "You spent a night making out with a woman that you clearly like and then don't talk to her for a week because you're busy with work."

"Well, it's not like—"

"Do you want to see her?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then go. I can hold the fort down here."

"What if Roland wakes up?"

"Any other night, I'd entertain that possibility, but there's no way that kid is getting up until Christmas morning."

Robin hesitates, looking John dead in the eye. "I'm having an affair with a married woman."

"Yeah. It sounds like you are." Robin sighs and takes another sip of the ale. "But everyone knows the Blanchards' marriage is a sham." Robin looks up from over the rim of his bottle. "I mean, look at her then look at him. Nothing adds up there."

"It was arranged."

"Well, there you go. Mystery solved."

"I… might be falling in love with her."

"Then go see her."

"You… don't even like her. Why are you encouraging this?"

"Because _you _like her," John says easily, grinning as he reaches for his own drink and takes a short sip of it. "And if you like her, she can't be _that _bad."

It hadn't taken much convincing, after that.

He arrives at the Blanchard house less than an hour later and lets himself in through the back, just as he did before. He sneaks upstairs and smiles when he sees a light coming from beneath the door. Slowly, he opens it, and for a moment, he just stands there, watching as Regina stands by the window, staring out at the night sky.

It's snowing lightly and she looks lost in thought. Her wavy hair is pulled back with a diamond-studded pin and she wears a shimmery silver dress—she is absolutely breathtaking.

He almost hates to interrupt the moment.

Almost.

"I bet you thought I wouldn't come."

Regina whirls around, her eyes wide and her smile is immediate. "Robin, what are you—"

"I wanted to see you," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders. "And it took me far too long to realize that I could."

"But it's Christmas Eve. What about Roland—"

"He's sleeping, and John's with him." A smile curls onto his lips. "Besides that, I have a gift for you."

"Do you?" He nods as she crosses the room to where he stands and presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Can I make you a drink? Or—"

"I'd like that."

He follows her as she goes to the bar, watching as she mixes a drink. He tells her about Roland's new-found love of s'mores as she tells him about her phone call that morning with Henry. They talk about the snow and their mutual dislike of New Year's resolutions, and they talk about Christmases past—good experiences and bad. They talk well past the point of finishing their drinks, and when Regina notices it and makes them each a second, they take it to the armchair by the fire.

She nestles into the crook of his arm, and there's something about that that's both exhilarating and familiar.

For more than a month now, he's enjoyed her company—simply enjoying being in her presence. He's not sure when that enjoyment began to shift from wanting to be her friend to wanting to be more than that, but he's not sure that's what matters.

It's been a long time since he had this and he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it. For years now, he's struggled to keep his head above water. Since the war, everything has been a struggle. Marian had been his life preserver, offering security, keeping him afloat, and reminding him that everything would be okay. And then, she'd been yanked away. Had it not been for Roland, he's not sure what would've happened to him; he's not sure that he would have even wanted to survive.

He'd stopped thinking of himself after Marian's death—truthfully, he couldn't—and he'd thrown himself into being a full-time, sole parent. He didn't think about his grief or his loneliness. He didn't think of his own need for comfort, and he swore himself to a code—a code he's lived by ever since.

He wanted to set an example for his son by living a life that was both righteous and true—but, of course, his own definitions of those concepts were slightly askew. It didn't bother him that what he did for work was illegal because it allowed him to provide a comfortable home for them and it put food on the table. It didn't matter that Roland saw him tell a million little lies about their lives everyday because he told the truth about the things that mattered. And it didn't matter to him that Regina Blanchard was someone who he should consider off-limits.

He'd mulled her marital status over and over again, knowing that he should be bothered by it; but no matter how many times he considered it, he just couldn't find anything wrong in what they were doing. It wasn't like Leopold Blanchard loved his wife—truthfully, he wasn't even sure that Leopold Blanchard cared at all for her—and like him, Regina was merely trying to stay afloat.

And there was something poetic in the thought that they could help one another to get by.

He holds her a little closer, strumming his fingers slowly up and down her, smiling as she tells him about one of the gifts she got for Henry—the erector set that Mal's promised to clear a space for in her living room—and though she wishes she could see his face when he opens it, hearing about it on Christmas afternoon will be the next best thing. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she grins up at him before resting her head back down on his chest. It seems so strange to think that just a couple of months before she hadn't even seemed real to him, that she was more illusion than human—and now, her humanity was all he could see.

He can't remember the last time he felt so content and at ease with another person—and while he hates that tonight will be the last time for a long while before he feels it again, he knows it'll all be worth it in the end.


	10. Chapter 10

Regina yawns.

The music from the party downstairs is still playing and she can still hear bits of drunken laughter and conversation—but despite how close the party is, it seems so far away.

She looks up at Robin, resting her chin on his chest, smiling as he grins down at her. "It's getting late—"

"We're well past late."

"Do you, um… do you need to go?" She bites down on her lip. She doesn't want him to go, but it's Christmas morning. "I'm sure Roland will be up early."

"Oh, I've still got a few hours."

"You do?"

"He'll sleep until the sun comes up."

"He won't be too excited to sleep?"

Robin laughs. "No, once he's out, he's out. The sun always wakes him though."

"So, until the sun rises…" Her voice trails up and her heart beats a little faster. "You could stay until then?"

Robin nods. "Well, I don't have any other plans for the earliest hours of the morning."

Her cheeks warm and her eyes momentarily cast down, watching as her fingers trace circles over his shirt. "Will you stay the night?" she asks, looking up at him. There's a part of her that expects him to say no, even though he's already passed up two opportunities to leave. "Will you stay with me?"

"I'd like that," he replies, grinning as he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "In fact, I can think of no better way to spend my night."

Holding her breath, she looks at him and slowly pulls away.

He's not like anyone she's ever been with—not since Daniel, anyway—and in that moment, she finds herself glad for all the other times he's gently turned her down.

For months now, they've been building up to this point, and she's glad for that build. Had he stayed the night that night she first asked him to, she doubts that she'd ever actually have gotten to know him, that something more than a physical attraction and general liking would have developed. Instead, she'd have done what she always did—she'd let him get close enough to momentarily ease her loneliness, and then it would have all fallen apart. After all, what did she really have to offer?

Most men of their generation already felt their lives had been stalled by the war, and they were overly eager for some sort of normalcy. But she was trapped in her marriage and as much as she wanted 'normal' for herself, she couldn't quite fathom a way to attain it, at least not in the near future—and as jaded as that was, she'd accepted that her fate was never her own.

Though Robin's situation was less complicated than hers, his life wasn't entirely his, either—his heart still belonged to his late wife and his time belonged to his son—and while he was willing to let her in, he'd never be entirely hers. For most, their situation would seem doomed; for most, what they each had to offer wouldn't be enough. There was a chance that something, somewhere down the line would change, but for the moment, whatever it was that was blooming between them was exactly what she needed—and she thought that just maybe they might be able to help each other heal.

"Come on," she murmurs, sitting up and taking him by the hand.

Wordlessly, he follows her down the long hall that leads to her bedroom.

For a moment, they both just stand there, staring at each other from across the room, waiting for the other to make that first move. Her stomach flutters as she locks the door, and a sly little smile edges over his lips as he watches her slip off her shoes and pull the pin from her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders—and before she can ask if he's sure, before she can remind him that after this happens, there's no going back or pretending whatever it is that's happening between them is merely friendship, he starts toward her.

When he reaches her, he pulls her in by the hip, tugging her closer as his other hand sweeps into her hair, smiling gently as he leans in for a kiss. Her arms link around his neck as she pushes herself closer, kissing him back as his hand slips around her hip in search of the zipper on the back of her dress.

Slowly—and a bit reluctantly—she pulls back and turns around, looking back at him from over her shoulder and watching as his eyes linger. He steps in and his lips settle at the crook of her neck, his fingers tugging down the zipper, making her dress loosen around her and a soft shiver run down her spine as the cool air comes in contact with her skin. Robin's hand slips inside of the dress, sliding around her to rest against the thin fabric of her step-in chemise, his fingers pressing and kneading as she wriggles out of the dress. As her dress pools at her feet, she leans back against his chest, her head turning to the side as she enjoys the warmth of his breath.

Turning back to him, she reaches up, placing both hands on the side of his face as she takes his lips in hers. His hand slides down past the small of her back as he breaks the kiss, letting his lips coast down her throat as they move to the other side of her neck, suckling gently at her skin as she tugs his shirt from his pants—and then her fingers wrap around the top button of his pants. Robin stops and looks down, then slowly casts his eyes back up to meet hers as she undoes the button. She grins as he offers her a coy little smile.

His pants loosen and she tugs his shirt over his head, dropping it down as she reaches for his hand to lead him to her bed. He sits down at the foot of it, letting his eyes linger over the thin white silk that covers her. His fingers touch the fabric as he reaches for her, and when she catches his hand he looks back up—and this time, it's her turn to offer a coy grin.

Sinking down in front of him, she rubs her hands over his knees and thighs, eventually finding herself rubbing over the hardening bulge inside his boxer shorts. He offers an encouraging little groan as she pulls him out, stroking her hand up and down his shaft a few times before taking him in her mouth. He groans again as her tongue flits around the tip of his cock and a shaky breath escapes him as her lips slowly slide down his shaft, taking him into her mouth completely.

His hand finds its way into her hair as he hardens in her mouth. When she finally pulls away from him, before she can even fully stand and gain her footing, Robin reaches for her, his arm wrapping around her waist as he pulls her down onto the bed with him. She laughs as he rolls on top of her, peppering her with kisses—and any glimmer of trepidation or uncertainty either of them might have had fades away.

Robin sits up and unbuttons her chemise and she wriggles out of it, leaving her completely naked as he pulls off his boxers and settles at her side.

She turns toward him, kissing him deeply as his hand settles at her abdomen. Slowly, his hand drifts between her legs. Instinctively, she shifts her hips, giving him more access to her and moaning against his mouth as his thumb finds a rhythm against her clit.

They stay like that for awhile, just kissing and stroking one another as the soft but distant music from the party below them plays. She lets out a little whimper as Robin pulls away from her, shifting himself to his feet—but as he parts her legs and leans in, she can't help but smile in anticipation of what's to come.

The first swipe of his tongue is electric. It's been so long since she's been with anyone, and longer since she's gotten much pleasure from it, so she lays back and enjoys it as he licks at her. His lips suck at her clit while two of his fingers pump in and out of her, eventually leaving her breathlessly satisfied as he pulls back, trailing kisses down her thighs.

She giggles softly as he stretches out beside her once more, his lips settling at the crook of her neck as he waits for her to come down from her high—and then, once she's ready, he rolls on top of her.

She lets out a low _mmmm _as he slips inside of her, slowly pushing in until he fills her. He mutters something breathy that she doesn't quite catch, but nonetheless, she smiles as she looks up at him with hooded eyes—he feels so damn good.

And then he begins to move, his thrusts slow at first—pulling nearly all the way out before easing back into her— then, as her hips begin to move in rhythm with his movements, he picks up the pace. Her legs wrap around him and her fingers dig into his back as she pulls him closer, whimpering and moaning as they pleasure one another.

A bit abruptly, his thrusts slow, and she looks to him, watching as he pulls himself up. He rubs his hands over her knees as he draws them up, grinning slyly as he stares down at her, letting his eyes linger over her naked body, taking in her beauty. She returns the grin as she reaches for her clit, rubbing her fingers in a circular motion as she watches him slip back into her as he continues to fuck her.

Finally they each reach that point where they can't hold back any longer. Her hips buck and her legs tighten, her head pressing back into her pillow as her breath grows harder and ragged as a second climax nears—and when he explodes inside of her, they each let out a satisfied moan. His movements slow as he rides out his own climax, and eventually, he collapses on top of her.

She kisses him again, her arms linking around his neck as her fingers rub at his hairline, but unlike before, it lacks urgency. It's soft and a little lazy, the sort of kiss that could seemingly go on forever.

But of course, it can't.

He rolls off of her and settles at her side, grinning as she cuddles into his side and pulls the thick blanket up around them.

It's hard to tell how much time has passed. The music downstairs seems to have quieted and her eyelids are growing heavy—but she's not quite ready to go to sleep. Robin's fingers rub gently at her skin, flitting up and down her arm, then back again, but their conversation has dwindled—and to her relief, the silence between them isn't uncomfortable.

Then, suddenly, everything seems to fade...

When her eyes flutter open, Robin's arms are no longer around her and from the window she can see that the sky is beginning to lighten. It's nearly daylight; it's nearly Christmas morning.

"Robin, are you—"

"I didn't mean to wake you."

She smiles groggily. "I'm glad I woke up. At least this way, I get to say Merry Christmas."

He pulls on his shirt and then turns himself toward her, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Merry Christmas."

"I'm glad you stayed."

He nods and reaches for his socks. "I am, too, I'm just sorry it has to end so soon."

"We'll see each other again."

He offers a smile that seems a little sad—or maybe he's just tired—as he nods. "Soon, I hope."

"Soon," she agrees as she lays back against the pillow, finding it difficult to keep her eyes open. "Maybe we could just happen to run into each other for a cup of coffee sometime next week?"

He hesitates, then nods again. "I'd very much like that." Her eyes flutter and she yawns; she's too tired to actually make a tentative plan, and he seems to sense that. Leaning in again, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll show myself out."

Her eyes flutter and she nods. She doesn't remember anything after that...

When her eyes open again, she's alone in her room. The bed is messy and the pillow beside her is still indented from where Robin's head laid on it, and when she rolls over and draws in a breath, she can still smell the earthy smell of evergreen that she's come to associate with him.

She smiles wistfully as she gets out of bed, shivering as the cool air envelopes her naked body, and as she reaches for her robe, she notices an envelope propped up against the mirror of her dressing table with the words "Merry Christmas" written in Robin's handwriting. Her brow furrows, but a smile draws up at the corners of her mouth, remembering that he'd said something about a gift—and after tying her robe tight around her waist, she sits down at the dressing table and reaches for it.

Biting down on her lip, she slips her finger underneath the flap, ripping it open, and instead of card, she finds a note-an oddly folded note with the message on the exterior.

_Forgive me, M'lady, for lying to you this morning when I said that we could meet for coffee later this week. What I couldn't tell you then is that you are in no position to make plans as you'll be out of the country and ringing in the new year with your boy. I can't wait to hear all about it over coffee, whenever you should return. You'll notice that the enclosed ticket is one way. I didn't want to rush you as this visit is long overdue. Send a note when you're ready to return_—_and if you should never return, I most certainly hope that you'll write. _

_All my love,_

_Robin_

Her tears are immediate, and her hands shake as she unfolds his note—and just as he said, the paper is wrapped around a steerage ticket, stamped for an arrival at the Port of London in just four days, just in time to celebrate the new year. She stares at the black, boxy letters that spell out the name of the ocean liner at the top of the ticket, and for a moment, she feels like this has to be a part of some dream, like any moment the joy she feels will be taken away—after all, life has taught her to expect that.

Thinking of Robin, she pushes those thoughts away, not willing to let them ruin such a wonderful surprise. For too long she's let fear dictate what she does and what she allows herself to enjoy. She sets the ticket down and looks to the letter again, smiling gently as she reads his words—sweetly and selflessly restoring the notion that maybe she could find happiness again.

Truthfully, she can't quite tell if this is a beginning or an end—but for the moment, she decides not to dwell on that either. She's lived through enough to know that people come in and out of one another's lives when they're supposed to. Some get to stay, while others' stay is brief—only time would tell which it was. But regardless of how or when it ended, her time with Robin Locksley would remain one of the brightest spots in her life—and she hoped he'd be able to say the same.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Technically, the story is over. If ended with Regina leaving for London, and Robin loving her enough to let her go. However, I have a handful of prompts and requests to continue. So, I'm going to add oneshots here and there to give a glimpse of what happens next in their story. They may go out of order, so I've added a date to give you an idea of the time frame / when things are happening. They'll mostly consist of either letters between Robin and Regina, or reactions to letters. At least that's my thought as of right now. Thanks for reading :)

* * *

_New Years Eve, 1927_

For the most part, Robin's always seen himself as a realist.

He didn't keep people on pedestals, he never anticipated an unlikely happy ending, or relied on luck. When times were tough, he knew that no one was going to swoop in and save him; he'd have to figure it out on his own, find a path that worked for him, and find practical solutions to solve his problems. He didn't always go about things in the ways others expected, he was never one to follow the crowd. He was an independent thinker, he was self-sufficient, a leader instead of a follower whose life was guided by a strict code of conduct.

And from that code, he rarely strayed.

When Regina Blanchard came into his life, he'd proceeded with caution despite his attraction; and when she proved his preconceived notions about her wrong, he'd accepted that, understanding his own shortcomings and that he didn't have all of the answers. Still, he hadn't meant to fall in love with her—and yet, despite knowing all of the reasons that he shouldn't, he let it happen.

Because for all of his practicality and realism, at heart, he was a romantic.

And for the last several weeks, he's been something of a dreamer.

He hadn't felt any hesitation when he bought her a one-way steerage pass to London, though—and when he wrote the note he attached to it and suggested the possibility that she might come back, he knew that she wouldn't take it. He'd simply said it in case her circumstances changed and because it seemed like the right thing to say. But he couldn't imagine her making a willful return, he couldn't imagine her choosing to leave her son and returning to a life that made her miserable—and he wasn't deluded enough to think that whatever was happening between them outweighed her need to be a mother to her own son. She didn't need romance to make her happy; she needed her child.

So, he stood at the window of his apartment, Regina's letter in hand, watching the distant pier. He watched the boats come in and he watched the birds dip down toward the dock. He watched as the sky turned orange and the sun began to set, marking the end of yet another day delaying the inevitable—and for just a little longer, allowing himself to dream of a happier end for them...

He takes a breath and looks down at the still-sealed envelope, focusing now on his name in her beautiful, careful penmanship—then he forces his finger beneath the flap, tearing it open and pulling out the creased paper.

Again, he hesitates.

Thinking of the last time he stood at this very window, consumed by thoughts of her.

It'd been Christmas morning. Roland had already opened up his presents and was happily playing with a new set of little green army men while John napped by the fire. Then, he was keenly aware of the time—she'd be going to the pier, she'd be at the pier presenting her ticket, she'd be boarding the ship, she'd be setting sail—and all the while, he wondered if he should go for a final goodbye.

He pictured himself running toward her as she walked down the dock. He pictured himself pulling her out of the line and pulling her up against him as her breath caught with surprise, and he pictured himself kissing her without care of who might see them. He pictured her flushed as they pulled away—her deep brown eyes wide and a bit teary—as she took a step back from him, offering a little wave and a grin as she returned to the line. He pictured himself watching as she boarded the ship, waving one last farewell before the ship set sail and slowly disappeared into the horizon.

But he hadn't gone.

Because the truth was someone might see them and that could spell a world of trouble for her—and that was the exact opposite intent of his gift to her. He wanted to make her situation better, not worse; and he rationalized that he loved her enough to let her go, that that sweet kiss as he left her asleep in her bed was a perfectly acceptable end to something wonderful. She was starting a new chapter; he didn't need to muddy that. And he most certainly didn't want her to think that there were strings attached to his gift, that was anything other than free.

_Robin,_

_For days now, I've been trying to write this letter, but I'm finding it more difficult than I anticipated. I think you know what my decision will be—how could it be any other? _

_I didn't tell Henry or even Mal that I was coming. I thought it'd be a nice surprise, and really, it had to be. There wasn't enough time to make a phone call or post a telegram—and truthfully, I was too afraid that the wrong person would over hear it and your thoughtful gift would be spoiled. _

_I was over the moon to see Henry. He's so much taller than I remember, but still has that babyface that used to stare at me across the table and beg for an extra dessert. I feel like I arrived just in time. _

_And now that I'm here, now that I have him so close by, I can't imagine going back to the arrangement we had. I can't imagine only having the occasional phone call and a letter here and there, or guessing what he might like in a care package based off the likes of other boys around his age or a rushed comment from a too-short phone call. Here, I can be his mother again. _

_I thought it only fair to tell you now rather than waiting. I wish I could have thanked you for this selfless gift in person, but again, time didn't allow it. I'll never forget your generosity—though, I admit, I am hanging onto hope that one day I'll be able to properly thank you. And should that never happen, please know the tremendous mark you've left on my heart. _

_All my love, _

_Regina _

His thoughts are interrupted by the door opening—and then before he can tuck it into his pocket, Roland comes barreling at him.

"Papa! Papa, look! We got sparklers!"

"A little something to ring in the new year."

"I… think you two have got the wrong holiday." A grin twists onto his lips as he reaches for Roland and lifts him up by the arms. "But who could resist ninety seconds of fiery fun?" John replies with a snort as he sets Roland down—and something tells him the purchase of the sparklers was his son's idea and a battle John lost. "Go and wash up for dinner, alright?"

Roland scurries off and John's brow cocks. "Ninety seconds of fiery fun—that's, uh… that's quite a line."

"What those things only last about—"

"I'm just picturing you wooing the ladies with that zinger." John can't help but laugh to himself, but as Robin groans and stiffens, he stops. "Too soon?" Robin shoots him a look and John sobers—he's well aware of how difficult this week has been. "Sorry."

Robin sighs, lifting the letter and looking at it. "I'm just… not in a great mood."

John's eyes fall to the letter. "She wrote—"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She's not coming back."

"But you knew that was possible, likely even."

Robin nods. "It just feels… final all of the sudden."

Sighing, John shifts awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Sometimes relationships—"

"Aren't meant to last."

John frowns, but doesn't say anything, again, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I wasn't going to say that but—"

Robin shrugs. It's true though—and though their slow-burn romance had come to an abrupt end, it had ended on his terms. He shouldn't be feeling this way.

And yet, here he was.

Practically pouting.

"I miss her," he murmurs quietly. "I think I'm just going to need some time to…" His voice halts and his head drops. He was about to say mourn. He was going to say that he needed time to mourn the loss of her—but that isn't quite the word he wanted and his brother-in-law isn't the audience to hear it, and he has to remind himself that losing Regina as he did wasn't at all the same as losing Marian. "Never mind."

With a sigh he goes to the couch, sitting down and letting his head fall against the back of it, feeling frustrated with himself, with his thoughts, with his inability to accept something he set into motion.

"Do you regret it?"

"What?"

"Starting things up with her?"

He looks up, thinking of how cautious he'd been at the start of it. "No."

"Do you regret sending her off to London?"

"Not at all," he says without hesitation. "She belongs there."

"Well, at least you don't have regrets to live with," John says, smirking as he plops down beside him. "I mean, there was that idiot move about not going to see her off, but—"

"I don't think that would've helped."

"Maybe not, but it would've been romantic."

Robin nods. "Yeah. It would have been."

Taking a breath, John points to the letter. "Is it… too personal, or… can I…"

Robin offers him Regina's letter, watching as his eyes skim it. There's nothing scandalous in the letter. She was careful with her wording. If the letter were intercepted, the reader would never know they'd been lovers. There was no reference to their night together, no mention of their affair. Still, there was a warmth to it—and undertones that he could read as something more than gratitude for friendship.

Finally, John looks back at him. "This isn't like Marian—"

"I never said it was."

"I know. You've done a lot of _not saying_ when it comes to Regina."

Robin's eyes fall. For as slow as things started, he felt like he'd fallen so fast and before he could even process those feelings, he was sending her away in a grand gesture. It was all a whirlwind and now, his head was spinning. "I know—"

"All I mean is that this isn't permanent."

"She's not coming back," he says, looking up again. "She's—"

"Alive and well, an ocean away."

"Exactly."

"Write her back." His brow cocks. "You said that you asked her to write and she did. You're not just going to leave her hanging, are you?"

Robin looks up. He did ask her to write to him, and at the time he made that request, that idea seemed so romantic. "And what would I say?"

"All the shit you're not telling me." His brow arches and he grins coyly. "I'm sure if you think about it long enough you'll come up with something."

Robin nods. "I just don't want her to feel guilty about—"

"Then don't make her feel that way."

"You make that sounds so easy."

John nods and hands him back the letter before rising to his feet. "She managed. You can, too." Robin's eyes fall to the letter. "Think about it." There's a long pause as Robin considers what he might say and how he might respond, and for a moment, he loses himself in thought. "I, um... I'm going to go doctor up the parsnip soup you made so that your kid will actually eat it."

Smirking, Robin looks up. "It's a bisque—"

"Your five year old doesn't care."

Robin chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, according to the latest copy of _Ladies Home Journal—_"

"Another thing your five year old doesn't care about—and on this one, neither do I."

"Just don't load it up with Velveeta."

John feigns offense. "Robin, it's a _bisque_. This calls for fancy cheese, like Parmesan."

He rolls his eyes as John disappears into the little kitchen across from the living room. With a sigh, he sits back down on the couch and looks to her letter—and this time as he skims her words, he feels something different and a little smile tugs up from the corner of his mouth. As much as he misses her, he's glad that she's happy—and selfishly, he's glad that he was able to give that to her.

Standing up, he takes her letter and goes to the desk by the window, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from the drawer.

_Regina,_

_I am so glad to hear that you arrived safely and are enjoying time with your boy—it's much deserved…_

He smiles as he considers what to write next—and his chest flutters as he thinks of the Cadbury Cocoa he saw that morning at the market. He picked up the canister and looked at its yellow label as memories of her flooded him. She was everywhere, it seemed. And though in the moment, it made him sad, now that he had the opportunity to tell her about it, he felt quite differently.

So, he continues to write.

_Since you left, I've thought of you constantly… _


	12. Chapter 12

_January 21, 1928_

Regina sits by the lamp, staring out the window and watching as it rains, the want ads in the newspaper face up on her lap, but nearly forgotten.

Parting with Henry was always difficult, no matter how long or short their separation.

The headmaster at his school thought that she was spoiling him, and perhaps she was; but it didn't matter to her. She was just glad to have her boy back and she had time to make up for.

That afternoon, she'd picked him up from school and taken him out for lunch. They ate hot roast beef sandwiches at a little cafe near his school, then, despite the cold, went for a little walk, eventually ending up in a little park. All the while Henry chattered on about school and his friends, telling her stories about his lessons and the pranks they'd play on one another in the dormitories. He explained how they all gathered around whenever one of the boys received a package, splitting up chocolates and all taking turns at new games—and then, her heart swelled as he giggled and described an ugly, oversized jumper his friend's grandmother sent.

Just to buy a bit more time, she bought them two cups of hot cocoa from a stand, urging Henry to drink it slowly as they walked back to his school.

She ignored the disapproving gaze of the headmaster as she signed him back in, and as he hugged her goodbye, she struggled against her tears.

"Can we do this again?" Henry asked as he started up the stairs, his hazel eyes wide and his smile broad. "Next weekend?"

She'd smiled and nodded, her heart already aching to have him back. "Of course."

For the rest of the day, she wandered aimlessly.

Sometimes, she was unsure of what to do with herself. Outside of Henry, there wasn't much for her to do. It occurred to her that she could take a more active role in her son's life, that simply being in the same city with him wasn't really enough, but upon her arrival in London, she found that Henry liked his school.

Leopold's conversations with the Headmaster seemed to have been skewed to paint a picture of an unhappy, unadjusted little boy who struggled with his studies. While Henry was a relatively average student, he liked his classes and his teachers, and they seemed to like him, their reports to her lacking the details that Leopold often relayed. According to his teachers, Henry excelled in writing, but preferred short stories to essays. He liked to read and was fascinated by science; he'd even made the school's cricket team and was quickly learning to play the sport.

Two weeks before, she'd tried to slyly inquire about Henry's tuition, holding her breath as she awaited a bill she could not pay; but to her surprise, the bill had been paid. Leopold had sent in the payment for the new semester. For a moment, she'd just sat there, across from the headmaster, puzzled at why her estranged husband would do such a thing—and that's when the headmaster pivoted the conversation, telling her that he was glad Henry would be continuing his studies, and then, hesitantly, he added that he enjoyed her son, though he'd been disappointed he hadn't been able to go home for Christmas like the other boys.

It was then that she realized the game Leopold had been playing. Keeping him at the school was a joke he'd privately enjoyed knowing it came at her expense.

She wondered if her husband was even aware that she was in London…

That afternoon, her thoughts fluttered back and forth, not knowing quite what to do—should she let Leopold continue to pay? Should she enroll Henry elsewhere? And if she did, how would she manage it? But the most important question she considered was whether or not Henry would be as happy elsewhere...

Mal decided that she should let Henry stay at the school, after all, so much of Leopold's wealth was thanks to their marriage, so it only seemed fair that her son should benefit from it. And then in an easy, throw away comment, she reminded Regina in the event Leopold stopped paying Henry's tuition, she could pick up the tab.

And that caused another pang of guilt.

Mal had done so much for her and her son already—in fact, the entire Pendragon family had. Friendship or not, it didn't feel right to take more.

It occurred to her that afternoon she should probably start to look for a job, something that, in theory, should be easy enough but in reality was riddled with complications.

Her schooling had been limited to a girl of her class. While she had impeccable posture and could speak flawless French, she had no practical skills—no hirable skills. She was taught to be an ornament to be taken care of never to care for herself...

"Is there a reason you're not opening your mail?" She looks up, watching as a smile twists over Mal's lips. Her eyes are a bit red, her smile coming easily, and there's a slight saunter to her approach. "This letter's been sitting here for days."

"I know," Regina replies. "I'll… get to it."

"How about getting to it now?" Mal asks, plucking the letter up from the tray. "It's from _him_. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I'm… busy."

"Well, I'm not," Mal says, slipping her finger beneath the envlope's fold as she plops down in the armchair opposite Regina and drapes her legs over the chair's arm. "And really, neither are you. You're just pretending to read that paper."

Regina's eyes roll. It's not untrue. But reading the want ads had proved fruitless hours ago. After all, no one was hiring for a socialite. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"

"I was, but now I'm not."

"Clearly."

Mal sighs. "Her husband missed his train. He'll be leaving in the morning."

"Have you considered… I don't know… dating someone who wasn't married?"

Mal's brow furrows. "And where would the fun in that be?" Regina's not sure whether to laugh or scoff, and the sound that escapes her is some squeaky mix of the two causing Mal to laugh out in a burst. "We're not talking about me," she says, her eyes brows shrugging as a devilish little grin crosses her lips. "Now, back to this letter…"

"I was hoping I could distract you."

"Not when I'm the one who needs distracting."

Regina watches as she unfolds the letter, her eyes moving slowly over the words.

It looks... long, she thinks, but she can't be sure.

Biting at her lip, she watches as Mal reads Robin's words—her eyebrows arching up at certain points, a little smile drawing onto her lips at others, and every now and then, she emits a wishful little sigh.

"How… quaint," Mal says at last, folding it up and tucking it back into the envelope. "He's a good writer."

Regina blinks. "A good writer," she repeats slowly. "That's… all you're going to say about it?"

Mal grins, looking quite satisfied with herself. "I thought you were busy with pretending to look for a job—which, I feel compelled to remind you is completely unnecessary—and so didn't have time for the letter just yet."

"We both know I'm lying."

"I knew it, I just didn't know if you did."

Regina's eyes roll.

"He seems sweet."

"He was."

"Is," Mal corrects. "He's not dead, he's in Maine."

"It's a world away."

"No, just an ocean."

"Is there a difference?"

Mal's eyes roll. "So, it's all or nothing now, hm?"

"I never—"

"The thing you and Robin seemed to like about one another was that you were unavailable."

Regina blinks.

That's not untrue. Though they hadn't really ever talked about it, that did seem to be a draw for both her and Robin. She was married, he was focused on his business and raising a son. They carved out little bits of time for each other, and somehow managed to fit perfectly into the other's life. Like that final puzzle piece…

But a piece was all they could be.

"It worked in Maine, but I just… I don't see how it could work now."

"You're so imaginative, Regina."

"As you pointed out, there's an ocean between us."

Mal swings her legs over the chair and sits up, looking straight at her. "You're in love with him."

Regina feels her cheek flush. "I'm—"

"Don't even try to argue with me." Regina's lips press together and her eyes widen as she stares back at Mal. "We've known each other since we were kids and I know you. I know all your little idiosyncrasies and quirks and I know what an idiot you can be when you're in love, but don't think you should be."

Regina looks away. Mal's talking about Daniel and the guilt she felt over their love affair. "This is… different."

"Yes. Robin's alive and Daniel is dead."

"Ouch," she murmurs, looking up sharply. "That was… an unnecessary reminder."

"Look," Mal says, her voice softening. "Life isn't perfect. Relationships aren't perfect, unless you're in the middle of some fantastical novel, and even then someone's going to die of some terrible fever." A little grin creeps up on her lips. "He's not asking you for much, Regina. He just wants to stay a part of your life. Don't deny him that. Don't deny yourself that." Taking a breath, she holds out the letter, waiting until Regina takes it. "It's late. I'm going to take a shower. I smell like cheap cocktails."

Regina girns. "I wasn't going to say anything, but—"

"Well, I'll do us both a favor," Mal says, standing as she looks pointedly at Regina. "Read it."

Hestitanty, she nods, her stomach flopping with something that might be nerves or excitement. "And you're going off to bed after the shower?"

"Yes, I figure… I'll just, um… continue my date in my head."

At that, Regina laughs, watching as Mal departs, sauntering toward the stairs. She keeps an eye on her until she reaches the top, and it's not until she hears running water upstairs that she draws Robin's letter from the envelope—and almost immediately, she feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Robin's letter is filled with all sorts of mundane yet amazing stories.

Roland lost a tooth and nearly woke up when "the tooth fairy" visited his room to deposit a quarter beneath his pillow. She laughs as she imagines Robin diving down at the side of the bed, trying not to land with a thud, then limping out of the room as Roland rolled over, going back to sleep. Afterward, John teased him about making a fairy costume "just in case" for next time, complete with glittery wings.

He tells her about a soup he made that Roland said was "almost good" and shares a recipe for s'mores, a treat he'll think Henry would like to try. He tells her about the weather and his business, using the vaguest of cryptic details that make her roll her eyes, and he tells her that he can't seem to manage getting through a day without wondering about her.

He misses her, and that detail makes her heart flutter and ache at the same time.

He recounts a day they had lunch together—one of those planned things they pretended were mere coincidences. He reminds her of how easily the conversation came and how they'd laughed, getting caught up in themselves as if they were the only two people in that little diner. Hours larter, when they'd parted ways in the parking lot, he'd wanted to kiss her goodbye.

He hadn't, of course, but the instinct had been there.

And he says that's sort of how he feels now.

Robin's letter ends on a hopeful note though, asking her to write him back. Her letter to him felt final—and that was how she meant it to be—but he's not sure that it has to be, not sure he can accept that. And ordinarily while such a sentiment might be off putting, she finds it sweet, loving him for not allowing her to recoil into herself.

Upstairs, the water turns off. It's late, and she should be getting to bed, but instead, she reads the letter again. Then, instead of going up to her own room, she moves to the little desk by the window and pulls out a sheet of stationary.

_Dear Robin, _she begins. _It was wonderful to hear back from you..._


	13. Chapter 13

For months now, she and Robin had been trading letters.

Like clockwork, the third week of the month, his letter would arrive. Usually on a Wednesday.

By Saturday, her reply was in the post and she waited with eager anticipation for the next.

For the most part, the letters were filled with their daily routines—their comings and goings, stories of their children, the random thoughts and musing that popped into their heads. They wrote about shared memories, filling page after page, rehashing the same stories they each looked back on fondly, and they wrote about how they missed each other, how they longed for one another.

It was funny, in a way, the way their relationship allowed for this sort of happy limbo they found themselves in—keeping one another close and also at an arm's length, never truly progressing—and for as much as they said, there was so much that could go unsaid, so much written between the lines, left for the other's interpretation. She wasn't sure if it was intentional—though on some level it had to be, at least by this point—they never wrote about their future, always stopping short of mentioning anything beyond the present. After all, what future could they really have with him on one continent and her on another? Say nothing of her marriage, as ill-suited and doomed as it was…

But, on that particularly warm Wednesday in July, Regina finds herself perched on the front stoop of Mal's flat—waiting and hoping for his, and feeling like the sort of giggly teenager who didn't have a care in the world, the sort of girl she and Mal would have made fun of when they were teens.

Her heart skips a beat as she sees the postman round the corner and when he spots her, he offers a little wave. She fidgets with her fingers as she waits for him to make his way down the street, and then finally he's standing before her.

"Do you have something for me?" she asks, grinning expectantly.

"Indeed, I do, ma'am."

He lifts the letter from his bag, handing it to her with a few other things, and before he's even to the next flat, she's back inside. She drops the rest of the mail on a table and slips her fingers underneath the envelope's flap, pulling the letter out as she flops back into an armchair and kicks her legs over the arm of the chair.

She reads about a recent trip he and Roland took to Canada to visit Marco and Eugenia—a trip that was purely for pleasure, not for work. He tells her about the nice weather they enjoyed and how he taught Roland to fish in a little stream that ran through the property, and he tells her that despite the heat, Roland insisted that they make "Regina's cocoa."

Her heart flutters and her stomach lurches as he describes taking Roland up to Niagara to look at the falls. The two hiked the trails, going higher and higher in the Carolinian Forest until they reached a point where they could look across at the mighty falls—and the way he describes them makes it seem like it was the most beautifully enchanting place on Earth.

Afterward, he took Roland on a tour of Fort Niagara and now Roland has a small obsession with King George's War—and she can't help but laugh as he describes the drive home and how Roland kept rattling off facts about it as if he hadn't been with him on the tour.

He ends the letter explaining that on the Fourth of July he and John took Roland to the playground by the school. She smiles as he describes Roland running around with sparklers, trying to spell out his name before it extinguished. He tells her that as he sat there on the swings, side-by-side with John, he couldn't help but think of her and how they'd sat on those very swings one cold December evening, slowly rocking and talking until the sky turned from gray to black.

He'd walked her home that night, stopping just shy of kissing her, but nonetheless making her heart pound wildly as if he had.

Enclosed with the letter is a little envelope that reads _From Roland (who still has quite the crush on you)._

Inside is a folded paper and by the looks of it, it's a drawing—perhaps of fireworks from the Fourth of July or something from his Canadian adventure. But instead she finds a sweet drawing of Robin and Roland with her and Henry. They're all holding hands and there's a heart between her and Robin.

Her immediate reaction is to smile—the drawing is absolutely precious.

The picture, as sweet as it is, sends a jolt though her, leaving her unsettled. At first, she doesn't understand her own reaction, not understanding the guilt that begins to churn at her core, sending tears to her eyes. But the longer she looks at it, she begins to understand that what's in the image will likely never be reality.

And as slow as it comes to her, it still hits her like a ton of bricks and it seems silly that she's only now coming to it when it's so obvious. She and Robin and their boys will never be a family—and to have thought otherwise was foolish—after all, she's still married, and Henry still has years of schooling ahead of him. Robin has his life and she had hers, and as much as they pretended, they're lives were going in different directions.

"Why do you look so down in the dumps?"

Startled, she jumps, the letter and drawing falling from her lap. "Oh, I just…" Her voice trails off as she hurriedly picks up the papers, smoothing them out as she looks up at Mal. "It's nothing."

Mal's brow arches. "It's far too hot outside for these games. Just tell me." With a half of a nod, Regina unfolds the letter, holding out the little drawing that was enclosed. "Mm, yes, whimsical drawings made by small children are such a mood killer."

"It's not the drawing… well, not exactly." Mal hands it back to her and she looks down at it, her finger tracing Robin's crayon-drawn face. "It's… it's a picture of a _family_, Mal."

Mal's eyes narrow, still not following. "So, you're upset that your boyfriend's kid likes you?"

"No—"

"Then you're upset because your boyfriend's kid still hasn't learned to color in the lines?"

Regina clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. "Of course not. It's… a very sweet drawing."

"Regina—"

"I'm stringing him along—I'm stringing _both of them_ along."

For a moment, Mal just stares at her. "Incredible," she murmurs. "It's absolutely incredible what you can convince yourself of."

Regina sighs, taking back the drawing and carefully folding it back up as tears well in her eyes. "Never mind."

"Okay, fine," Mal coos, her features softening as she sits down on the arm of the chair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you more than you already are. I just… don't see how you went from A to Z in a matter of minutes simply because Robin's little boy drew you a cute picture?"

Regina nods, tucking the picture back into the envelope it came in. She won't deny that her feelings took her by surprise or that she's not entirely sure why the drawing had such an effect on her. "It just… hit me," she murmurs, shrugging her shoulder as she looks over at Mal. "I just looked at the drawing and it… it just put everything into perspective, I guess. It made me realize that I can't give Robin what he needs. I can't be the girlfriend he wants, much less the wife."

For a moment, Mal's quiet, mulling Regina's words and likely trying to soften whatever snippy response first came to mind. "And how do you know what Robin wants, Regina?"

"I think I know him better than _you_."

"That's fair," Mal says, her arms folding. "But I know _you_. And _you _have a self-destructive streak. _You _can't help yourself and sometimes _you _can't be trusted with your own self."

Regina bristles, hating that she can't argue that point, hating that Mal's right.

"And how do you know that you're not exactly what he needs at this exact moment in his life?" Mal continues. "You've said it once or twice yourself—Robin wasn't and isn't ready for anything more. He's focused on raising a son and—"

"What if that's just what I told myself?"

Mal blinks and her jaw tightens. Regina can see that she's holding her tongue.

Early on, she'd been reluctant to strike up any sort of relationship and maybe _this _was the reason.

It'd been different when they were in the same city, in the same state, in the same country; but still, looking back, even that hadn't been fair. Not when she had so little to offer beyond stolen moments here and there. When she left, it was supposed to be final—as much as she hated that—and though it hurt to say goodbye, maybe it was for the best.

After all, Robin Locksley was an honorable man, and though their affair might suggest otherwise, he wasn't the sort of person who would be disloyal. He'd never betray her and never willingly hurt her, even if that meant hurting himself. Especially if he didn't yet see that that was what he was doing.

"So, do you want to end this?" She hears Mal ask. Do you want to tell him that you think you've been horribly unfair to him and—"

"No."

Her response is quick and immediate; she says it without thinking.

"Then maybe you just need to… I don't know… take a deep breath, go for a walk and clear your head." Standing up, Mal grins. "I think the heat is just getting to you."

Regina musters a half-hearted little grin. "Maybe."

"Go for a walk, sit in the shade, think about how right I always am and—"

"You're so full of yourself."

Mal shrugs and rises up from the arm of the chair. "Maybe I am and maybe you should be, too."

"You're the only person I've ever known who thought being conceited was a positive trait."

"You say conceited, I say confident." Offering a wink, she straightens her skirt. "Now, I've got an appointment at two. Let's do dinner tonight—somewhere fancy that serves icy cocktails—and we'll hash it all out, yeah? It's our last night before Henry comes back from vacationing with what's-his-face, so we should do something fun and boozy anyway"

"Neal. Henry's best friend who he talks about endlessly is named Neal."

"That wasn't the part you were supposed to reply to."

Regina laughs, her eyes rolling. "Dinner and drinks tonight sound fantastic."

"Good. I'll see you later, then."

Regina nods again and watches her go, her fingers tracing the edge of the envelope as she thinks of Robin and Roland and that day at the school when Robin was late to pick him up. Just like his father, Roland was a charmer. His big brown eyes and his long lashes were enough to melt her heart, but his dimpled smile was what stole it. Robin had been so relieved to find her there with him—likely just to find that he wasn't alone and someone was looking out for him—and she recalls the reason Robin was late had something to do with work.

She claimed to understand what it was like to be a single parent, but truly, she didn't understand at all. She'd never lived it, not with Henry away at school and certainly not with a staff and money at her disposal to aid in her son's care. Her perception of what Robin's life was like was limited to the few glimpses he allowed her, and though she loved him, she was suddenly hit with the realization that her love could be a hindrance.

She found herself walking along a path in the park, Robin and Roland swimming through her thoughts, missing them and wishing she could be more for them. Her life, though, seemed to be a series of missteps—a series of steps she thought were right at the time, but in retrospect, proved to be just the opposite. Daniel had been proof of that, Henry had confirmed it. Perhaps if she and Robin met under different circumstances, had they come into each others' lives at a different time, when their children were older or she were more in control of her life, able to do more than simply wish that one day when she woke up, she'd be free.

Though she didn't want to admit it—and maybe neither did he—Robin wasn't looking for a girlfriend and he wasn't looking for a pen-pal as Mal so often teased. He was looking for a wife—or at least, at some point, he would be. He needed someone who could be physically present, someone who he could spend a life with, someone who could help him raise his son.

Or at least, he should be.

With time, she was certain he'd see it, too.

And when he did, she'd inevitably be heartbroken.

As she rounds the corner onto the path that would take her back to the street that leads to Mal's flat, she's all but convinced herself of what she needs to do, but by the time she sits down at her desk with her stationary out in front of her, she finds it difficult to find the right words.

Closing her eyes, she draws in a breath, wondering if she was being selfish, wondering if it'd only end up hurting more the longer she let this go on. But regardless of whether or not those things were true, she wasn't ready to cut him loose, not entirely, and there was a little voice at the back of her head—a voice that had an uncanny resemblance to Mal's—that told her she could be wrong. She tried in vain to ignore it—trying to be brave and selfless—but the voice only got stronger and more demanding. So when she finally put her pen to paper, instead of telling him she couldn't go on this way and that it wasn't fair to him, she compromised.

She grimaces as she reads her words back to herself—her words seeming much less dire than her feelings actually were—and instead of pointing out that they could never be more than they currently were, she instead framed her concerns around the worry that he was missing out on opportunities that might present themselves, that his loyalty to her was holding him back. After all, neither of them knew what life had in store...

Her words felt like a sucker punch and her hands shook as she sealed the envelope and placed the postage on it, but as much as they hurt, they lift a weight from her shoulders.

Continuing their relationship—or whatever it was between them—would be up to him.

The ball was in his court now.


	14. Chapter 14

Mary Margaret Blanchard's wedding was less than forty-eight hours away, and though filling orders for Leopold Blanchard had been exceedingly difficult since the onset of the new year, he wasn't going to turn away the money. So, he gritted his teeth and kept his mouth shut, continuing to take orders and make deliveries. For the most part, it worked out; after all, it was now rare that Leopold actually placed or received his own orders.

That hadn't been the case tonight, not with Leopold monitoring every detail of his daughter's wedding to ensure perfection. That night, he'd been waiting in the kitchen, immediately opening every crate and inspecting every bottle. He'd attempted to make small talk hoping that _Quebec _champagne was as good as the _French _champagne he'd order under ordinary circumstances, completely ignoring that he'd been serving Quebec champagne at his parties since the start of Prohibition. Robin nodded along, glad that he was barely given time to respond—because if he had been given time to do so, unlike most nights, he doubts he'd have been able to hold his tongue.

For the first time since Regina left, Leopold mentioned his estranged wife.

Robin feels his jaw tighten at the mention of her name, avoiding eye contact as to not give himself away—after all, Leopold Blanchard has no idea of the role he played in Regina's disappearance, and he wants to keep it that way. But the more Leopold goes on, the harder it is to listen to—then finally, when Leopold states for the umpteenth time that Regina's absence has ruined Mary Margaret's wedding planning, he can't hold back from allowing himself a snide _seems to me you'd have thought the same if she were here_ before returning to his work. Leopold only huffed before turning his attention back to the crates and, thankfully, he was much more interested in the expensive bottles of bourbon than he was berating his long-lost wife.

Finally, when the crates were all unloaded and Leopold had given every last bottle a thorough inspection, Leopold handed over a thick envelope of cash and the transaction ended. Getting into his truck, Robin thumbed through the cash—he'd count it later—then reached beneath his seat for his flask, taking a long sip of whiskey before turning over the engine and heading home.

"You look like hell," John states as soon as he enters the apartment. "Rough night?"

"I had the Blanchard delivery—"

"Ah, that'll do it," John murmurs, tossing a magazine onto the coffee table. "I don't know why you don't just let me take over the Blanchard account. You can have the—"

"I don't want Leopold to suspect that I had anything—"

"Robin. Regina disappeared _months _ago," John interjects. "And if the money you're worried about, it all goes into the same pot, so it's not like you'd be missing out."

"I _know _that."

"You don't have to be such a damn masochist."

Robin's jaw tightens. "I… want to keep tabs on him."

John's face scrunches. "Why?"

"Because when you go into houses like Leopold Blanchard's you inevitably hear things," Robin says as he crouches in front of the liquor cabinet and selects an unopened bottle of whiskey that had been a gift from Marco and Eugenia. "So, while I hate going there, I feel like I need to," he adds as he rises back up and unscrews the cap. "For Regina's sake."

"And you really think he's going to tell you—"

"Maids talk. Footmen talk. I don't think Leopold would tell me anything, but they might, if I ask the right questions."

"I see—" Robin nods as he falls back onto the couch, taking a swig from the bottle. "This is why I don't want to fall in love. Men do stupid shit when they're in love." Robin's eyes narrow. "Oh, hey, I made chili. Do you want some?"

"You made chili three days ago."

"Right. So. Do you want some?"

Robin sighs and nods, again taking a swig of the whiskey as John goes to the kitchen. "Where's Roland?" Robin asks, suddenly very aware that he hasn't seen his son all day. "I'd like to—"

"He's upstairs. At Chip's."

"Oh—"

"He's been there since noon."

"Probably avoiding Day Three of Chili Night."

John shugs. "More for me."

"But it's past ten now—"

"He fell asleep. He and Chip were listening to some radio program," John tells him. "Chip's mom said she'd bring him down if he woke up and wanted to come home and I saw no reason to wake him."

"Right—"

Robin sighs, taking another drink as John warms the chili.

Over the course of the last few months, Roland had gotten increasingly close with a little boy who lived upstairs. He was new to town and just Roland's age, and they'd be in the same class when the new school year started. In many ways, Robin was glad that his son had such a close friend, and yet everything he went upstairs to play with Chip, a pit rested in Robin's stomach because inevitably, it would lead to some sort of interaction with Chip's mother.

Mrs. Potts—who he adamantly refused to call by her first name, Beatrice—was not a subtle woman. Only a few days after she and Chip moved into their apartment, one of the other neighbors had mentioned that Robin was single—and eligible. She'd shown up with a loaf of banana bread and he'd accepted it, thinking it was just a neighborly gesture. But things quickly escalated. She'd show up to borrow eggs or sugar or a cup of milk and make a comment about how blue his eyes were that day, somehow end up with his mail and come to personally deliver it and make a comment about his dimples. She'd knock on the door and ask if he could take a look at a light switch or some appliance, and though he was adamant that he was no handyman, she insisted assuring him that he could be of help. Regardless of what she said was broken or not working properly, he always found it perfectly fine—and she always sang his praises, telling everyone in the building he had "a magic touch."

John was _incredibly _amused by it all, but that one never failed to make him laugh, and unfortunately for him, it'd become her go-to move.

"Ya know," John calls from the kitchen. "Mrs. Potts mentioned something about—"

"I'm not going up there."

"Not even for apple cinnamon muffins?" John grins back over his shoulder. "She, uh… she left you one, but I ate it. Turns out they go great with chili."

"Maybe you should go up and get some." Robin smirks, laughing quietly to himself at his own joke.

"Nah, she's only got eyes for you." With oven mitts on his hands, John carries a bowl of chili into the living room and sets it down on the coffee table. "Besides, I've got a date tonight."

Robin's brows arch. "Really—"

"Tink is in town visiting friends." He grins, looking pleased—and Robin's not sure if the smile is about Tink or the chili, but regardless, John seems smitten. "We ran into each other at the market and—"

"I'm pretty sure I read this story in the last Reader's Digest."

John scoffs, his grin brightening. "What I'm planning for tonight wouldn't be suitable for Reader's Digest."

Robin's eyes roll as he takes a spoonful of chili. "When are you meeting her?"

"She's at the Rabbit Hole now. I told her I'd meet up with her whenever you got home."

Swallowing the chili, Robin nods. "Yet you're still here."

John shrugs. "You had to work tonight, so it's my turn to play housewife and that's a role I take very seriously."

Again, Robin's eyes roll as he reaches into his pocket and tosses John the keys to their truck. "Well, you're relieved of duty—"

Laughing, John catches the keys in his palm, slipping his finger through the ring and swinging the keys around. "Oh! Wait. Before I got, you got something in the mail." Immediately, Robin feels his mood improving. "You're awfully excited about the electric bill."

Robin's face falls and he looks back to the chili, dragging his spoon through it. "I really hate you sometimes."

John chuckles as he thumbs through the small pile of mail. "Ohh, unless it's this letter from Regina Blanchard that you were excited for?" Robin looks up and John grins as he flings the letter at him. "Enjoy. I'm gonna go get pretty for Tink."

Suddenly, the chili is forgotten.

Unabashed, Robin tears open the envelope and sits back, his entire body tingling with anticipation.

It's silly to be this excited over a letter—over the last several months, John has certainly teased him mercilessly—but he no longer cares. Regina's letters are always a bright spot, and he longs for any connection with her. Her letters make him feel like he's a real part of her life. She takes him through her day-to-day routines, tells him about Henry's progress in school, and shares whatever her thoughts are floating through her head whenever she sits down to write. Sometimes the letters are well planned and topics are arranged in sections; but mostly, the letters are written in a stream of consciousness style, rambling from one topic to the next. He prefers those letters; they make him feel like he's there with her, like he's wondering though her day at her side.

In her last letter, she wrote about a summer holiday she and Henry took to the coast. One of Mal's friends had a summer house there, and she and Henry spent their days flying kites and walking along the beach, collecting seashells. She taught him how to fish, then after roasting the trout for their dinner, she and Henry tried the s'more recipe that he sent her. As expected, Henry loved them, and they became a nightly treat while they were on vacation.

Though she didn't say it, he could tell that Regina was relishing in the chance to be a mother to her son, enjoying every minute of Henry's summer break from school; after all, this was the first chance she'd really had since Henry started school six years before. And he was relishing with her—or, well, from afar…

He unfolds the letter, rubbing his fingers against the paper, surprised to only find a single sheet—an odd detail given that their letters usually go on for pages.

Nonetheless, he opens it smiling at the sight of her now-familiar, loopy and slightly sloppy handwriting—and then his stomach drops and his lungs deflate.

"Well, I'm off to—" John's voice halts. "You look worse than when you came in."

Robin doesn't reply. Instead, he just stares down at the letter.

"So, um… what did she have to say?"

Robin's eyes press closed. "I… think she's trying to break up with me."

An audible gasp escapes John as he sinks down into the armchair adjacent to the couch. "What? Why?"

"I… I don't know."

"That can't be right."

Robin scoffs, wishing there'd been room for him to misunderstand. "She wants us to keep our options open."

"Options—"

"That's what she said."

John bites down on his lip as his head dips forward. "That sounds like a really roundabout way of saying she's met someone else."

For a moment, Robin considers that.

He looks back to the letter, reading over the few sentences scribbled onto the paper. Regina only mentions _him _keeping his option open, saying that she's worried he'll miss out on "an opportunity for something more." There's absolutely no reference to herself—he was the one who inserted her.

"I bet she met some hunky British guy—"

A sad little smile tugs up at the corner of Robin's mouth. "I suppose she has a type."

"Bitch," John scoffs, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. "It sounds like—"

"Don't say that—" John's brows jut up as Robin tosses the letter onto the coffee table. "And don't say she's met someone else. I don't think—"

"Then why would she write you that? Why would she say—"

"I don't know," Robin cuts in, his voice piquing with annoyance. "She… she was always reluctant—"

"Yeah, that's why she writes you twenty-page love letters—she was reluctant."

"She's never written twenty pages," Robin bristles, not entirely sure what he's feeling and remembering that her first letter was a good-bye until _he _wrote her back. Had he really misunderstood this whole time? Had he guilted her into a long-distance relationship she never wanted to be a part of? He racked his brain to remember the things she wrote about—always the past, never the future—and he wondered how long she's been thinking about this, how long she's wanted to hit the brakes.

His head falls back and he draws in a breath, slowly exhaling it as he tries to collect his thoughts wishing he could talk to her, wishing he could just ask her what she wanted.

But he can't.

Not easily, anyway, and certainly not now.

"So, how did she end it?"

Robin lifts his head. "What?"

"The letter," John says. "How did she end it?"

Robin's brow furrows. He's not sure. He's not sure he even read it. Leaning forward he reaches for the letter, opening it up and scanning her words—and the end really isn't an end at all. She tells him that she doesn't want him to miss out on something promising and real out of obligation to her, that she doesn't want him to live in limbo because of the choices she made.

She's guilty—why or about what, he couldn't say—but she gives no indication that she wants whatever's between them to end. Quite the contrary as her last words are _I couldn't live with myself if I knew my love was a hindrance to your happiness._

And then she'd signed her name, and that was that.

"Y'know what you should do?" John says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You know how you should reply?"

"No, but I bet you're about to tell me."

"In the morning, you should go to the post office and give her a call—"

"And say what?" Robin asks, "How am I supposed to respond to this?"

"Break up with her."

Robin blinks. "Break up with her," he repeats as if John's idea is coming from left field.

"Do it before she gets the chance to break up with you."

"No," Robin says, surprising even himself. "I… I don't want to." Drawing in a short breath, he quickly exhales it. He feels a headache coming on. "She's got a self-destructive side. I don't know what's triggered it, but I won't play into it."

John's brow furrows. He doesn't understand—but he wouldn't. He couldn't really. He didn't even know her.

"So… what are you thinking you should do then?"

"I don't know," Robin admits. "But if she's losing interest in our relationship, she's going to have to tell me. And if she wants to end things, she's going to have to be the one to do it."

John nods, momentarily pursing his lips. He's holding back, and for that, Robin's glad. "Will you write back?"

"I don't know."

"So, you're just… not going to—"

"I don't know," he says again, his agitation evident in his tone. "I… I don't know what I want to do about this." He sighs and falls back against the couch. "Don't you have a date?"

"I could cancel or—"

"No, don't do that," Robin cuts in, shaking his head. "I just… need to be alone for awhile, collect my thoughts and—"

"Whiskey's good for that," John says, leaning forward and pushing the bottle toward Robin. "It might give you hell in the morning, but after that bottle's gone, your thoughts will be _real _clear."

Robin scoffs. "We have a very different understanding of the way whiskey works." Nonetheless, he reaches for the bottle and takes a swig. "But that won't stop me from drinking it."

John nods, offering a sad little grin. "You're sure you don't—"

"Go. Please, go."

John nods and rises to his feet. "Eat your chili," he says, pointing to the bowl. "I worked all day—"

"Three days ago."

"Still. It was hard work and you should appreciate it."

Robin grins and nods. "Thanks."

He lifts his bottle as the door closes behind John and he gulps down the whiskey until his throat burns.

He has no idea what to do or how to respond.

Reaching out, he grabs the letter, reading it once more in an attempt to infer something that isn't plainly written—and as he does that little nagging voice in the back of his head makes him wonder if John isn't write and she's not trying to let him down easily.

Crumpling it, he tosses it back to the table, sighing it when it lands in his all-but-forgotten bowl of chili.

Fuck. What was he supposed to do now?


	15. Chapter 15

It's been just more than a week since Robin received Regina's letter, and a week later, he still has no idea how to reply to it—hell, he wasn't even sure he knew how to _read _it.

John was more convinced than ever that Regina had met someone else and the letter had been either her way of easing him into a break up or to make the breakup his choice. He speculated that Regina might also be trying to keep her options open or that she felt obligated toward him because he's paid her passage. And though he could easily see how John reached the conclusions that he did, none of them sat right with Robin. Regina never had a problem being direct. She didn't have a problem explaining what she wanted, and when she wanted something to conceal, she'd never show her hand. No, if Regina had met someone else—someone she was interested in in some way, someone who could offer her something that he could not—she wouldn't tell him unless she was sure of what she wanted. She'd never be as coy as she'd been in that letter.

Staring down at the blank page before him, he draws in a breath, and as he touches his pen to the paper, he has no idea what he's about to write...

_August 3, 1928_

_Dear Regina_—

_To say your letter took me by surprise was an understatement._

_The thought of "someone else" hadn't occurred to me, and to be honest, I was surprised that it occurred to you._

_For days now, I've been going over your letter trying to understand it, trying to garner some meaning from it. And frankly, I can't._

_You know my personal life better than most, and so you know that since Marian, you've been the only woman who I've dared love_, _and I cannot imagine loving another. That said, I realize the deep limitations to what I have to offer. I'm not deluded in thinking that love is enough. If that were true, I think both our lives would've gone in different directions._

He pauses and considers scratching out the digression—it's true though, had either Marian or Daniel lived, he wouldn't be writing this letter now. He leaves it, deciding he likes the point it makes, the way it gives gravity to their relationship.

_I've never been a big believer in fate. I don't think many of our generation can say that they are, I don't think many have a reason to or are capable of it, truthfully. And yet, in the months we spent together, I started to feel like we were a part of a bigger scheme, like our paths converged for a reason. Before you, I wasn't interested in love. I claimed I didn't have time for it, but in actuality, I was afraid of it. After Marian, how could I not be? The same, I can assume, is true for you._

He holds onto that thought for a moment, weighing it against John's assumptions. He remembers the first time he and Regina spoke—how he'd gone into that conversation with his own assumptions and how she'd taken him to ask for it in only one curt sentence—and how unsettled he'd been afterward. It hadn't occurred to him that they had anything in common, it hadn't occurred to him that she'd been living behind a facade, that her heart was broken and she didn't see any way that it could be mended.

_You say that you want us to keep our options open, and I suppose that's fair enough. I think you and I are proof of that age-old saying "you never know what's going to happen." And yet, I can't wrap my head around ever feeling about another as I do for you, I can't imagine a better option coming along._

_John tells me "options" or "opportunities" can mean a lot of things, and sure, they can. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss waking up with someone warm beside me, just as I'd be lying as if I didn't wake up every morning wishing that warm someone beside me was you. _

He scoffs at that, wondering if she's simply giving him permission to sleep with someone else, wondering if she's simply giving herself permission to do the same. Maybe it'd work out for her, but for five years now, he's been trying to wrap his head around the notion of bringing someone home—just once giving into temptation, giving into the sometimes gnawing need—but his situation doesn't allow him to do much more than think about it because at the end of the day he wasn't a bachelor. He was a father who shared a room with his six-year-old son, and he couldn't change that.

Nor did he want to; after all, his son would only be a child for so long.

There would come a day when Roland would no longer need him—when the small two-bedroom apartment they shared with John would be too small, when he wouldn't wake up from a nightmare and want comfort, when he'd crawl into his father's bed during thunderstorms or when he didn't feel well—and there would come a day when he'd look back and miss the days when his son was small. And that day was closer than he cared to acknowledge.

_We might not be able to be what the other truly needs, but right now, I can't imagine wanting another. I can't imagine someone else making me feel the sort of glee I feel when I receive one of your letters. I can't imagine wanting to share bits and pieces of my life with someone else nor can I see someone else responding with the enthusiasm I've felt from you. I know what we have is far from perfect and I miss you more than my words can adequately express. And yet, what's between us is exactly what I need at this point in my life._

_Perhaps one day it'll change. Perhaps for you it already has changed._

_If it has_—_or when it does_—_I hope that you'll just come out with it because as much as I hate to think of my life without our correspondence, the thought of holding you back is doubly painful._

For a moment, he stops and stares at that last sentence. His eyes close and his heart aches a little at the thought of giving her an out—an out that she just may take. And yet, he means it. He doesn't want to hold her back. If she's truly trying to let him down easy, if John's right and there is someone else in his life, then he'd have to accept it—but in order for him to do that, she'd have to be honest with him. She'd have to come right out and say. She couldn't be coy and let him wonder.

_Until then, I'd prefer to go on as we were… whatever that means… if that's what you want, too._

_All my love,_

_Robin_

Swallowing hard, he sets down his pen and reads over what he's written—and then, before he over thinks it or loses his nerve, he folds it and stuffs it into the envelope he'd addressed days before. He hesitates momentarily before he rises and walks the letter down to the post box—then his stomach flops knowing he'll have to wait at least three weeks for her reply.


	16. Chapter 16

Mal twirls her cigarette, her brow arching up as she stares at Regina. "You're being difficult."

Regina's eyes roll. They've been through this time and time again, and for whatever reason, Mal just wouldn't let it go. A week ago, it'd started—Mal had come home bright-eyed and buzzing—and since then, she hadn't let up on the idea of "fixing Regina up."

She'd tried to spin it in a hundred different ways. At first, she'd tried to convince her that she was only looking out for her, that she was looking for a balm for her loneliness. She'd pointed out time and time again that dating didn't have to lead to anything else—dinner and some laughs, a movie at the cinema here and there, nothing major. She described it almost as if it were a way of cultivating friends—albeit only male friends, at first. But then, she realized that all of the dates Mal proposed to her had a commonality, a trait that linked them all together—each and every man was not only married but married to one of her many girlfriends.

And that detail made it harder to believe Regina's loneliness was the guiding force behind Mal's motives.

"And what about Robin?"

Mal shrugs. "What about him?"

"Well, we're… I mean…he's sort of my..." Regina's voice trails off and she sighs, not sure if she's annoyed more with Mal or with herself.

It was hard to explain what exactly she and Robin were to one another. They traded letters, and in those letters their relationship was both distant and intimate. And in a way, that worked for her—after all, she was married, he lived on a different continent, and they both had children who were rightfully at the forefront of their lives. In some ways, their relationship—or whatever it was—was an afterthought for them both, a hobby they fit in when they had the time and desire. But then in other ways, whatever was between them felt so authentic, so real. She was able to open to him in ways she'd never been able to open up to others, able to confide things she'd never dream to say aloud. He cared more about the uninteresting details of her life more than the tantalizing details everyone seemed to know, and he was one of the few people who'd ever seen her for who she really was. And had she stayed, she can only imagine how messy things would've gotten—how messy she'd have gladly have let things get.

"Regina," Mal says, looking her straight in the eye. "You're in love with him, I know that, and I'm not saying you should do anything to put that in jeopardy."

"Oh, you mean like dating another man?"

"Dating and going on a date are completely different things." Regina only blinks, unconvinced. "It's been _a year_, Regina."

"It's been _ten months_."

Mal blinks. "That's still a long ass time, Regina."

"You don't think _I _know that?"

"Letters full of sweet nothings can't keep you warm at night."

Her jaw tightens. "Those letters mean the world to me."

"I know that, and again, I'm not telling you to stop writing to him. In fact, you'd be an absolute idiot to throw him away. Who knows? One day, maybe the two of you will end up in the same place at the same time, maybe one day you'll be ready for more than a pen-pal." She sighs, letting her features soften. "Regina, you _told him_ you didn't want to hold him back, that if he met someone he liked and wanted to—"

"That's different."

"Why?" Mal counters, her shoulders squaring. "Because he's a man?"

"No," she scoffs. "We… have rules and..."

"And those rules only apply to him?"

Again, Regina bristles. "No."

"Look, you've been holding him at an arm's length—which, is fair enough given the ocean that's between you. But how do you know that he's not doing exactly what you're doing, driving himself crazy and denying himself any sort of physical—"

"How do I know that he _hasn't _been denying himself?"

"Ask him."

"Oh, sure," Regina nods. "I'll just add a cute little note at the end of my next letter and ask if he's fucked anyone recently."

Mal's brow arches. "Well, there's one idea."

Regina's lip purse. She'd be lying if she said the mere idea of Robin with someone else didn't hurt her, and truly, if he had been with other women over the course of the last year, she didn't want to know. While the condition had been her idea, it was never one that sat well with her; however, it was better than tying him down in a relationship he could expect little out of, and if she wanted to keep him, she had to do _something_.

"Look, Regina, I'm not saying you have to sleep with the guy—though, I think you could use a good lay—I'm just saying you could get out. See someone who isn't me or Henry, have a fancy meal that you don't cook, enjoy a show and some drinks, have a few laughs. That's all. It can be perfectly innocent if that's what you're looking for."

"Innocent, sure."

"Regina—"

"That's what every married man wants from a date who isn't his wife."

"Who said anything about being married?"

"You."

Mal's brow furrows. "When?"

"When didn't you? Every man you've tried to set me up with has been the husband of one of your girlfriends."

"Oh. Right." Mal sits back, taking a few puffs from her nearly forgotten cigarette and they both watch the smoke puff out in front of her. "Well, it's not my fault I don't know any unmarried men." Her shoulders straighten as she once more twirls the cigarette. "I made it a point not to fraternize with them."

Regina's eyes roll. "Which again takes us back to my original point—"

"Sex. Right." For a moment, she thinks Mal might concede that she might just see the myriad of flaws in her plan, but then a grin slowly curls onto Mal's lips. "What if you _wanted _to sleep with him?"

"Oh my god—"

"Regina, it's been _a year_. This isn't healthy."

"Plenty of people go far longer without—"

"Are you truly saying that you wouldn't even consider the possibility of sleeping with an attractive and willing man simply because you're in love with someone else, even though you gave that someone else permission to sleep with whomever he wanted?"

Regina's shoulders straighten and her chin tips up with indignation, hating that she can feel jealousy toward a faceless woman that may not even exist bubbling beneath the surface.

"That… wasn't a no."

"It wasn't anything. I didn't respond."

"Sometimes no response is enough."

"You're insufferable, do you know that?"

Mal grins. "It's one of my best qualities."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"The way I choose to take things is completely up to me, Regina." Again, she takes a puff of the cigarette before putting it out in the little ashtray beside her. "Look, life is made up of blurred lines and gray spaces. Nothing is ever absolute and it's foolish to pretend that it is." Leaning forward, he reaches out, placing her hand over Regina's knee. "You're living in limbo, Regina, and you're not doing anyone any favors by doing that."

"And dating will solve all my problems?"

"Of course not."

"Then—"

"It'll just give you something to _do_. You go out, you see things. You enjoy good food and wine and music, see a show or two. You meet people. You might not like your date, but who knows? Maybe he has friends you'd like."

"So, you're suggesting I use these men."

"I'm suggesting your world doesn't have to be so limited."

"It's not limited. I have a job—"

"That you hate."

"Irrelevant—it's something to do."

Mal's eyes roll. "But you don't enjoy it."

"I enjoy seeing Henry."

"On weekends—"

She frowns. "And school breaks."

"So, you have a job you hate. A child you see sporadically and a very strange, symbiotic relationship with the post delivery man."

"I have you."

"I know, dear, and I love having you here. But I'm a flake—"

"Mal—"

"No, I'm serious. How many times have I cancelled on you?"

Regina's arms fold. That last bit is untrue—Mal has been a better friend than she deserves. She always has been. And if she were being honest with herself, aside from a job and Henry and waiting for the mail, she had little to look forward to in her days. Though she'd be miserable in her marriage, her position had afforded her a busy life that gave her purpose. She hadn't seen it then, but looking back, there was a part of her that missed parts of the life she'd given up.

Not enough to go back, of course. But just enough to make her feel wistful when she was down…

"It wouldn't be fair."

"To who?"

"To anyone."

"Not even you?"

"But this isn't just about me."

"Why not?"

"Mal, there are other people involved in this scheme of yours."

Mal frowns. "For a married woman willingingly having a love affair, you're awfully sanctimonious."

At that, Regina laughs.

"Take Robin out of the equation—"

"I can't—"

"Just for a second. Pretend." Regina's eyes roll, but she nods. "If you left Leo and came here and there was no Robin, would you be so hell bent against this?"

"But he is part of the equation."

"Pretend—"

Bristling, she looks away. "Yes."

"Liar."

Regina looks back at Mal with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You used to do this sort of thing all the time. Ever since you married that tired old man."

Biting down on her lip, Regina looks away. Mal isn't wrong. She's never been faithful to Leopold Blanchard, and outside of two extramarital affairs that were more to her than affairs, she'd lost track of her indiscretions.

"It wouldn't be fair to those poor men you'd set me up with."

Mal's eyes narrow. "So, your worst case scenario is you disappoint someone who's used to being disappointed?"

"You are a terrible human."

Mal grins. "Is that a yes, then?"

"If I agree, just once, will you shut up about it?"

"Of course."

Rolling her eyes, Regina draws in a breath. This wasn't going to work. "Fine. Do it. Set me up."

"Really? You mean it? You're not going to back out at the last minute?"

Taking another breath, Regina fakes a smile. "Like you said, it's just a nice dinner, maybe a show, and some laughs, right?"

"Exactly." A grin twists on Mal's lips as she bounces up, her excitement nearly palpable. "And I know _just _the man for you."

"Do you now?"

"Mm, I do. He's perfect in case you change your mind about the sex. Everyone wants him."

"Except his wife, I assume?"

"His wife doesn't know what she wants," Mal sighs, shaking her head as a little laugh escapes her. "She's not really my type, a bit of a bore, actually. But after you get a few drinks in her, she really comes alive."

Regina smirks. "So who is he? Anyone I've heard of?"

"Killian Jones."

* * *

Killian Jones isn't unattractive.

In fact, he's _incredibly _attractive. His dark features are offset by piercing blue eyes, and his smile is that sly mischievous sort that makes women go weak in the knees.

For a while, she finds him absolutely beguiling. She finds herself smiling and laughing, completely taken in by his charm… or perhaps it was just the champagne. Regardless, it was nice to be in the company of someone else, nice to be out, nice to be enjoying herself.

As they're seated at their table, vaguely perusing the menu, they make small talk—she tells him about Henry and his schooling, he tells her about his own daughter (a little girl named Hope whose name she tries in vain not to cringe at), and then their conversations shifts to the war years as it always seems to with anyone of their generation.

She tells him about Daniel. He tells her about Milah—a Irish nurse whom he'd planned to marry. Unlike Daniel, Milah survived the war, but only months later succumbed to the first and most devastating wave of the Spanish Flu.

That's the first time it happens.

As Killian speaks, she can't help but think of Robin—the pain in his voice as he spoke of Marian's death, the way that pain resonated in his eyes as he recalled the details of that terrible day, and her way her own heart ached for him. By the time she returns to the present moment, Killian's moved on to his courtship of Emma. She blinks a few times, trying to focus as he chuckles about their age difference and how he'd found her absolutely enchanting.

The cynic in her creeps up then, her head tipping to the side as her eyes narrow. "Interesting," she murmurs in an unconvincing voice.

"How so?"

"Well, you're here… with me," she says, not worried about offending him. "And if Mal's to be trusted, this isn't the first time you've stepped out of your marriage for an evening."

Killian's eyes fall away from hers as he nods. "My marriage is a complicated thing."

At that, she scoffs. "Well, I know a thing or two about that."

"Of course."

Her brow arches and she reaches for her glass of wine, taking a long sip.

Killian doesn't ask for details.

Robin would've asked. He'd have noticed the tone of her voice and the way her shoulders tensed, and though it might not have been the courteous thing to do, he'd have asked if she wanted to talk about it. In fact, on numerous occasions, he'd done just that.

She musters a smile as her chest tightens. She misses him. She misses being in his company and the ease that had settled between them. She misses the way that he cared for her, the way that he put her first in the moments when they were together, the way he took away her guilt.

The waiter arrives at their table and before she can find the item she'd selected for herself, Killian orders for her and she stifles the urge to roll her eyes.

As the waiter leaves, Killian resumes their conversation—if he can really be called that when he's done most of the talking—returning to his courtship of Emma. She doesn't hear it, though. Instead, her thoughts once more shift to Robin, a soft smile edges onto her lips as she thinks of Robin and their little coffee dates.

She remembers the way they just happened to meet on mornings when they'd just happened to be free, and how they'd settle in a booth, sipping on coffee and munching on pastries, talking about whatever popped into their heads. She learned so much about him on those little dates—if they could even be called dates. She learned about his childhood and his family, his interest in archery, and his love of the outdoors. He asked about her, too, listening with genuine curiosity as she talked about her equestrian training as a girl and her dislike of ballroom dancing. He asked her thousands of questions—asking about her favorite foods and flowers, what she liked to read, her thoughts on politics—and in turn, she asked the same ones of him until the seemingly insurmountable differences between them seemed few and far between.

It's not until their food arrives that she realizes she hasn't said a single word since the awkward comment about understanding what it was like to have a complicated marriage, and Killian either doesn't notice or doesn't care. In truth, she's not sure it bothers her, either—there are only so many ways one can say _Oh, how interesting _before it loses its meaning.

Killian grins as he reaches for the bottle of champagne at the end of their table, first filling his own glass and then filling hers.

"Good, isn't it?"

"Mm, very."

"It's expensive."

She nods. "Of course it is. I wouldn't expect a place like this to have cheap champagne."

Killian laughs, a boyish grin spreading over his lips and reaching his blue eyes—and again, she can't deny that when he smiles like that he does have a sort of rakish charm that makes her stomach flutter.

But it ends there.

"You know," she begins. "In the states, champagne like this was hard to come by."

"Ah, right. Prohibition."

"Yes."

"Such a stupid law."

She nods. "I suppose it had its purpose—"

"Not that I can see."

Again, she nods, momentarily thinking of launching into the political reasoning behind the well-intentioned yet unenforceable law. But she doesn't. He wouldn't care and, truthfully, neither does she.

"A… good friend of mine was a bootlegger."

"A bootlegger—"

"He smuggled liquor from Canada."

"Seems dangerous," KIllian murmurs, his eyes shifting to the plate before him.

"I'm sure it was, but he had a—"

"You know this salmon is world famous."

Her brow arches. "Is that so?"

"I read about it in the papers—"

"Mm, seems like a wonderful ploy for publicity on the chef's part." She laughs softly to herself. "Some could just as easily say my cocoa is world famous."

Killian grins at her, but says nothing, instead reaching for his knife and fork to cut himself a piece of the fish. "I've only had better when out at sea where the fish was truly fresh."

"In the Navy, you said?"

Killian practically moans as he chews the salmon. "You _have _to try it, Regina."

"Considering it's what you ordered for me, I don't think I have much of a choice."

Focusing on her own plate, she looks at the salmon. She can't deny that it looks and smells incredible, but as she cuts another piece, Killian again moans and a little laugh bubbles out of her as she again thinks of Robin and their less-than-random random breakfasts and the day she confessed she'd never had eggs over easy.

He'd been floored, insisting on ordering them and when their plates of eggs and toast arrived, she felt her stomach churn as she watched the liquidy eggs giggle. _But the jiggle is the best part, _he'd said to her just before ramming a piece of toast into the center of the runny center, hoisting it up for her to see. Her nose scrunched as she watched the yolk drip down the edge of the toast and then, holding her breath, she reached for her own slice of toast, daintily dabbing the edge into the egg. He'd laughed at her as she chewed, watching as she assessed the eggs-toast combo, and he'd grinned in triumph as she admitted that it "wasn't that bad" before proceeding to finish the contents of her plate.

The rest of the evening isn't unenjoyable, despite the lack of interesting conversation.

They finish dinner and head to the cinema. They see the aptly named show _A Woman of Affairs_ starring Greta Garbo, and though she scoffed at the title, the film ends up being one of the best she's seen that year.

As they exited the crowded theatre, Killian slid his arm through hers, once more offering that charming smile that was supposed to make her putty in his hands.

"You know," he murmurs in a low voice. "I've an apartment not too far from here. Just a ten minute taxi ride."

"How nice for you."

Stepping in a little closer, he brushes his lips over her jaw. "I'll show _you _just how nice it can be."

It takes everything in her not to recoil. "I…don't think so," she says, taking a half step back and pulling her arm free. "But I do want to thank you. The salmon and champagne were fantastic and the show was sensational." A smile pulls onto her lips and she feels herself brighten. "Really, I can't thank you enough. Tonight was _exactly _what I needed."

Regina says no more, leaving Killian standing at the theatre's entrance as she slips into a waiting taxi.

It's not long before she arrives at Mal's flat and she's surprised to find the lights on.

"How was the date?" Mal asks almost as soon as the door closes behind her. "I imagine it was a disappointment, given that you're home and it's barely eleven."

"It was… interesting," Regina says, grinning back over her shoulder at Mal as she kicks off her shoes. "The salmon was good—"

"The salmon—"

"Yes."

"And the husband?"

Regina laughs as she slips into the chair opposite Mal. "Charming, for the most part—nice smile, decent storyteller, made excellent food and drink choices for the both of us."

"And yet, you're here with me and not with him."

Her brow arches. "And yet _you're _here with _me _and not his wife."

Mal's face sours. "I told you she was dull."

Regina laughs. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Mal says with a sigh. "More than you'll ever know."

For a moment, Regina says nothing, memories of Robin and their time together still swirling through her thoughts. "You know, I… I came to a realization tonight."

"Did you?"

"I don't want Robin dating other people. I don't care if it's not fair."

Biting down on her lip, Mal looks down, shaking her head as a little laugh escapes her. "So, do you still think Robin's interested in dating other people?"

"What?"

"Regina, come on."

"I don't see what—"

"Must you _always _be so damn difficult?"

Innocently, she blinks, completely lost. "Mal, I—"

"Regina, you just went on a date with one of the most sought after men in London and you're home at eleven o'clock. Robin Locksley is just as nuts about you as you are about him. There's no way he wants that silly little out you gave him. He only wants you, however he can have you."

Regina feels her cheeks warm as she draws in a breath, nodding as she releases it and looks back at Mal. "I'm glad you think so because… I came to the realization that I don't give a damn about how difficult this relationship may or may not be due to the distance. I don't want him dating anyone else or sleeping with anyone else or..."

Mal's eyes roll and Regina's voice fades. "Well, look at that. You've _finally _arrived."

Biting down on her lip, Regina's eyes narrow. "So, this was… a set-up?"

"In more ways than one."

"And what if I would've slept with him?"

"Then you'd have gotten laid and solved a different problem."

"I swear—"

"Look, it's not like you listen to reason. I had to do something that made you see what an absolute idiot you've been over this." Mal sighs. "That's always been your problem, you know that? You're never content to just see where things go and let them evolve as they should."

At that, Regina scoffs, though, she can't bring herself to even try to deny it. "So, how do I fix this? How do I take back what I said before?"

A grin curls up from the corners of Mal's lips. "Oh, I'm so glad you asked."

Before Regina can respond, Mal jumps up, grabbing her hand and dragging her up the stairs to her bedroom. She pushes her back to the bed as she flicks on the light, disappearing inside of her closet and returning with two skimpy little pieces of lingerie.

"Pick one."

"What?"

"You might not be able to keep him warm at night, but you can certainly still keep him satisfied." She grins as a little chuckle escapes Regina. "Now, pick one of these, I'll go get my camera."

* * *

_October 18, 1928_

_Robin_—

_I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for the curtness, but I have to go pick up Henry for the mid-fall holiday break by noon, so I haven't much time._

_But the reason for this letter is twofold._

_First, I don't want us to leave our options open and I don't care if that's selfish. I want to be exclusive, despite the ocean and complicated circumstances that sit between us._

_Second, I've enclosed a few pictures for you to enjoy at your leisure, a small consolation prize, of sorts… assuming, of course, that you'll accept my new terms._

_Love always,_

_Regina_

Biting down on her lip, she reads over her words then looks at the small stack of photographs that Mal took and later had developed by a friend. She chooses her favorites and wraps a sheet paper around the, securing it with a piece of tape. _Open when you're alone _she scrawls across it before wrapping her letter around it and tucking it into the envelope.

Drawing in a breath she seals the envelope and presses on the postage, her stomach fluttering with nervous anticipation, hoping she hadn't ruined the good thing blossoming between them—and though anything was possible, she felt confident that she hadn't.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanksgiving had come and gone and the Christmas season was now upon them.

In any given year, this was a melancholy season. Thoughts of Marian and all she was missing out on inevitably surfaced, the thought of her never seeing the sheer joy on Roland's face as he pulled a sweet potato pie from the oven or his absolute euphoria when he woke up early on Christmas morning to find an array of wrapped presents beneath the tree. As he got older, he looked more and more like her—save his dimples—and without even knowing it, he took on more and more of her characteristics. From the way he hung tinsel on the tree piece by piece to the way he'd beg for spare change whenever he saw the Salvation Army volunteer holding a red kettle to collect money for those less fortunate than they. Like his mother's, Roland's eyes were full of empathy and like his mother, Roland had a knack for finding joy in the simplest of things, unknowingly keeping everyone else afloat.

That year, in particular, Roland was his saving grace...

A year before, he'd been doing the impossible, slowly but surely falling in love. And this year, he was once more doing the impossible, trying to come to terms with a slow and yet abrupt end to that love. A year before, the future seemed ripe with hope and things to look forward to—even it was limited to stolen glances across a crowded ballroom, cups of coffee here and there, and walks in the park every now and then. Even after Regina left, there'd been the hope that came along her letters—the excitement and anticipation as he found one sitting in his post box, the way he'd consider her at various parts of his day, noting the things that would make her smile and laugh. For a time, it seemed they'd found the perfect arrangement, and then… it just stopped.

She'd written that letter—that god damned letter—about keeping options open, and he'd refused to take it as it was clearly meant, convincing himself that something deeper was going on, that it couldn't possibly be the beginning of the end. But the letter he'd written back was met with no reply. Clearly, John had been right and he just hadn't been able to take the hint.

It was ironic, really. He'd told John that if she wanted to end things, she'd have to be more direct—and well, it couldn't get more direct than simply stopping their correspondence.

Marco and Eugenia suggested he should write to her again or arrange a phone call with the Post Office, at the very least to force an explanation. But he couldn't do that—he didn't want to hear it. It'd hurt too much.

A year ago, he'd been helplessly falling in love, and this year, he was helplessly trying to fall _out _of love…

"Papa, can we make a gingerbread house?"

Robin blinks, suddenly pulled back into the moment by his son, grinning up from a magazine and batting his long lashes. "A gingerbread house," he repeats. "I don't think I'd know where to begin."

Roland holds up the magazine—the holiday edition of _Ladies Home Journal. _"There are directions in this."

"Of course there are, but—"

"It says it's easy."

"Of course it does, that's the point of an—"

"_And_ it says that it's tasty."

"Well, that part I believe."

Roland grins down at the image of a little blonde-haired boy placing a gumdrop onto a snowy, icing-covered rooftop. "But I think it's almost too pretty to eat—"

"We could make it from wood," John suggests, peeking out from the kitchen, a dripping dishcloth in hand. "Then you could keep it forever."

Robin grimaces and Roland's nose scrunches. "But a wooden house _wouldn't _make our house smell like Christmas." He blinks up at John, holding up the magazine. "See? It says right here that a gingerbread house will make the whole house smell like Christmas!" Grinning, he turns to face Robin. "So, can we Papa? Please? I'd ask Santa Claus for one, but then we wouldn't get it til after Christmas and it wouldn't work as well."

Now, John's face scrunches. "It wouldn't work?"

"No," Roland says, looking back at him sharply as if he's said something incredibly stupid. "You want the house to smell like Christmas _during _the Christmas season, not _after _it." Again, Roland turns, his bottom lip jutting out as he pouts, his wide brown eyes meet his father's. "Please, Papa? Please, can we make one?"

Helpless, Robin looks to John, mentally totaling up the cost of the candy alone that's pictured in the advertisement. But John only shrugs. "You're the one who insisted on teaching him to read," he says before disappearing back into the kitchen and turning the faucet back on.

Roland gets up from the floor and climbs up onto the couch, laying the magazine across Robin's lap. "Look at it, Papa. Doesn't it look like they're having fun?"

Robin can't deny that as he considers his upcoming drive to Canada—a drive that will take at least double the time given the coming snow storm—and the number of deliveries both he and John will need to make after they return. He considers the Christmas shopping he still needs to do, how Roland's recent growth spurt had forced him to buy his son new clothes and shoes before he was ready to do so and how that same month, he and John lost one of their best paying customers to the latest wave of influenza. This year, money was tighter than it usually was, and he and John had already cut corners and made sacrifices where they could to afford Roland a nice birthday and Christmas.

Robin sighs. "You realize that if we make that thing, it's going to be our dessert for the next month."

Roland beams and nods. "I bet it won't even last a week."

"He's right, you know," John calls out from the kitchen. "The three of us will build and demolish that thing in a single weekend."

Robin sighs again and nods, knowing both John and Roland are right. "I guess we'll have to take a picture so we can remem—"

"So we can make it!?" Roland asks, bouncing up from the couch. "Can we make it today!?"

Robin laughs. "Well, we'll have to go to the market and the candy store, so it'll have to be done tomorrow—"

"You promise!? Can we go in the morning?"

"Yes—"

He barely gets out the word before Roland throws his arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Papa! Thank you!"

Robin grins, again reminded of Marian and how the littlest of things would excite her, especially at this time of year—the first snow was always exciting, picking out their Christmas tree was always an adventure, and he knew that Marian would match her son's enthusiasm over building their first-ever gingerbread house.

"Why don't you go wash up," Robin says, brushing a few straying curls from Roland's forehead. "It's already past your bedtime and if we're going to get good eggs, we'll have to be at the market first thing in the morning."

Roland scurries off, leaving the magazine for Robin to look at—and for awhile, he does, taking note of the ingredients they have and the candy that can double for other, more expensive pieces.

"I feel like now is a good time to remind you that Eugenia taught me how to make those silly little frosting flowers that one time 'cause she needed help designing Ruby's wedding cake," John says, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a swig. "Could be useful now, though if you ever tell anyone other than Roland that I know how to make 'em, I'll smother you in your sleep."

"Think you can do trees?"

John leans forward, then nods. "Sure, I could give it a try. I _know _I could teach Roland to do 'em. He's got smaller hands."

"That matters?"

"For delicate little things like that?" John scoffs. "Of course it matters." He takes another swig as Robin examines the picture. "Eugenia had these special thongs she uses to—"

"_Tongs_—they're called _tongs_, John," Robin corrects, shuddering at the image it conjures and laughing as John's face goes red. "But anyway, I'm glad because I haven't the foggiest idea as to where I can find _green _licorice."

"And I don't know where to find fancy _tongs_."

Robin laughs and tosses the magazine onto the coffee table, listening as the water from the bathroom turns on, indicating that Roland is at the very least pretending to brush his teeth. "Building this thing could be fun—"

"Sounds tedious to me."

"Roland will enjoy it, even if we don't."

John grins, nodding as he takes another swig from his flask. "True."

They both jump as a knock comes at the door—it's quick and loud, and given the time of evening, completely unexpected. For a moment, both he and John sit there, silently arguing over who will answer it, but as the person on the other side rasps their knuckles against the door, John sits back and returns his attention to flask.

With a louder-than-necessary sigh, Robin gets up—and when he opens it to reveal Mrs. Potts on the other side of the door, John nearly chokes on his whiskey as he tries to stop himself from laughing out.

"I hope this isn't a bad time, Mr. Locksley."

"You can call him Robin," John calls out. "Everyone does."

Robin's jaw tightens as Mrs. Potts' face brightens. "Well, Robin, I hope I'm not bothering you."

"You're not," John replies.

Robin looks back at him briefly, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. "Actually," he says, turning back to Mrs. Potts. "It's bedtime and—"

"I got it," John interjects. "I think it's my turn anyway."

"Oh, how wonderful," Mrs. Potts says. "I think it's just lovely the way Roland still has two parents—or well, you know what I mean."

Robin nods. "I suppose I do."

"It's just Chip and I in our house. Sometimes I wish I had someone to help with the daily routines. They can be so draining, sometimes."

Robin holds his breath as he considers how to reply. "So, um… is there a reason you've stopped by."

"Oh! Right! Of course. How silly of me not to lead with that." Mrs. Potts laughs out and even from the bathroom, Robin can hear John laughing. "I, um… I'd have stopped by earlier, but…"

"Dinner."

"Well, yes, and…" She blushes. "I was hoping to catch you alone."

"I'm never alone."

She nods, reaching into her apron pocket. "I ran into the postman today—"

"Oh—"

"And—oh, he just felt terrible about it—you see, there was some sort of mixup."

Robin's eyes narrow. "Mix up—"

"Yes, some of your mail got stuck between the door and the seat of his truck, and—"

Robin's eyes fall to the envelopes in her hand, his jaw tensing once more at the sight of a familiar stamp. "And you just… happened to end up with it?" He asks, his heart pounding as he tears his eyes from the stamp that bears the face of George V. "How long have you had my mail?"

"Well, he gave it to me this afternoon. He had some of my things stuck in his truck, too, and when I told him we were close friends—" She stops, her cheeks flushing again. "Oh, you look upset. I swear he only just gave it to me. You were out, and—"

"He could've put it in my box."

"Yes, but—" Mrs. Potts holds out the envelopes. "Can't I make it up to you? I've just put on a kettle and—"

"I'm sorry, no," Robin says, trying to keep the irritation from his voice as he takes them from her. "I, um… Roland doesn't like to go down easily these days. He likes to stay up and—"

"Chip does the same thing."

Robin nods. "Probably the age they're at."

"Yes. I believe so." A little laugh bubbles out of her. "I just don't know what I'll do with him…"

Her voice trails off, and it's clear she wants to drag out the conversation, clear that she's looking for Robin to give her some sort of encouragement or advice, or suggest they handle it together or something foolish like that. But truthfully, Roland is still a good sleeper and he suspects that Chip is, too.

"So, then, I'd better go and help John."

Mrs. Potts is disappointed, but smiles politely. "Oh, of course."

"Thank you for, um… for bringing down my post." He rubs his finger along the edge of the letter he knows is from Regina, his heart beating faster with hope and his stomach churning with dread. "I've been waiting for this one—"

Mrs. Potts nods. "From England, that's an awfully long way."

"Yes. It is."

"You have family there, I suppose."

He hesitates—he supposes that's true, there's probably an aunt and some cousins he hasn't talked to or thought of since he was young—but he nods, not wanting to explain. "Yes. Family."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I'm sure you're eager to hear what they've to say." Mrs. Potts starts to turn away, but then looks back. "I put a kettle on every night around this time. Just so you know." She grins and winks, then turns away, and Robin sighs and closes the door, practically forgetting all about her and her awkward advances by the time he flops back onto the couch.

He tosses the other two envelopes aside and stares at the one Regina sent, staring at the way his name looks in her penmanship, noting the tattered edges and an oil stain smeared across the corner opposite the stamp. For a while, he just stares at it, debating if he should even open it. He reaches across the coffee table for John's flask and takes a long sip, letting the whiskey go down slowly, letting it burn the back of his throat as he lifts the envelope and forces his finger underneath the sealed flap—at least now he'd have an answer, one way or another.

The first thing he notices is that it's short—and that realization makes his lungs deflate. After his letter, she didn't have much to say.

Momentarily, he closes his eyes, mustering the courage to read on, mustering the courage to read exactly what he asked for—a direct response, a sure end.

But as his eyes open, they're drawn to her signature and the words that precede it—love always, it says.

His eyes dart up the page and he resists the urge to scan the page, worried he'll misconstrue the meaning, one way or the other.

An array of emotions hit him as he reads Regina's words—worry at the thought that whatever the letter includes is selfish, excitement and relief at her desire for them to be exclusive. He finds that he doesn't even linger on that though, not considering why she's saying that now or wondering if John wasn't right and there was another man, even if just briefly.

Then, he sees the mention of enclosed pictures.

He reaches for the envelope, he hadn't noticed the thickness before.

Looking back to the letter, his brow arches with curiosity—photographs for him to enjoy?

That sounded…

"Well, he's asleep," John says, a chuckle bubbling out of him as he returns to the living room. "Y'know, you really could've enjoyed that kettle with—" John's voice halts as he looks to Robin, noticing the familiar stamp. "So, she finally wrote to you."

"Weeks ago—"

John huffs as he falls back into the armchair. "And what does she have to say this time?"

Robin hesitates for an all too brief moment. "She wants us to be exclusive."

"And… that's different from before?"

Robin bristles, annoyed. "I… don't know," he admits. "I don't know if before matters."

He can tell that John isn't pleased with that answer, his feelings toward Regina are tepid, at best. But truly, he doesn't care what John thinks. He and Regina never set bounds, they'd only ever offered one another what they could afford. In many ways, their love was conditional, and though others might find fault in that, it worked for them and so far, neither had put in place a condition the other couldn't or wouldn't meet.

"When was it dated for?"

"October eighteenth."

John's brow arches. "That was…"

"Months ago, at this point." He sighs, his eyes sinking closed. "She probably assumed—"

"Exactly what you assumed after her last letter."

Robin blinks and offers a curt nod. "I suppose so."

For a moment, he lingers on that, knowing all too well what she's feeling and the thoughts that have to be swirling through her head. He can hear John talking—talking about how Regina is the one who set the all into motion and if she hadn't sent that letter about keeping options open, neither of them would be miserable—but he can't fully pay attention to it. Instead, all he can think about is that his reply will take three additional weeks to reach her, longer, given the excessive mail that goes out around the holidays.

"I, uh… I think I'm going to go jump in the shower then to bed."

John blinks. "It's not even ten."

"Yeah, well… I'm hunting down gum drops, chuckles, and sno-caps tomorrow, and I want to stop in at the Post Office to make a telephone call."

At that, John's brow juts up. "You're gonna call her?"

A smile stretches over Robin's face as he nods. He can feel his face reddening and his heart beats a little faster at the thought of finally hearing her voice again. "I just… I don't want to wait. I just want this little period of uncertainty between us to be done and over with."

John nods, grinning as he watches Robin collect the letter and envelope. "Well, goodnight then," he says, leaning back in the chair. "You sure you don't want that kettle—"

"No, but you're free to go up and enjoy… the kettle and whatever other comforts Mrs. Potts has to offer."

"Ah, but Beatrice isn't interested in me."

"How tragic that is."

John's eyes roll as Robin disappears down the short hallway toward the bathroom—the only place in the apartment where he can find a moment's solitude—and once he's inside, he pulls the pictures from the envelope, finding them wrapped in a piece of paper with the words "open when you're alone" written across it. He swallows hard as he pulls himself up onto the counter and leans back against the mirror, slowly ripping off the tape that holds it together.

His jaw drops a little at the sight of the first one—Regina is sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a sheer little nightgown with lace details that didn't cover up a single thing, her legs are crossed demurely and he's not sure if it's an attempt to feign modesty or an attempt to tease him. For a moment, he's frozen in place, unable to look away from it, noting and appreciating every curve of her body, remembering what it was like to touch her.

Letting out a shallow little breath, he looks to the next photograph, his eyes immediately drawn to her bare breasts. In this one, she's laying on the bed, her arm up around her head, her fingers tangled in her loose curls as the other hand twists the long pearl necklace that she wears, drawing his eye to her navel—and then to the spot just below, covered by a thin patch of lace.

Swallowing hard, he flips to the third and final picture—and when he does, a muffled little _oh fuck _escapes him. In this photograph, Regina is naked—completely naked. Her back is arched up slightly and making her breasts look round and full. Unlike the others, her nipples look hard, almost like she's been giving them some attention—and given the look on her face, that doesn't seem unlikely. His eyes slide down her body and his breath catches at the sight of her hand, positioned between her legs—and it sends a jolt straight to his cock.

_For you to enjoy at your leisure, _she'd said. And that night, he most certainly would be.

* * *

For the last week or so, she's been antsy, unable to be alone with her own thoughts.

She'd ruined this—she knew she had.

It'd been months since she heard from him, months since she sent her last letter.

He'd written back once—he hadn't yet received her letters or the pictures she enclosed—and she'd thought everything was okay. But then, no more letters came. The hope she'd felt when she read his last letter, the excitement she felt about his response after receiving her pictures dwindled, replaced by a dull ache that she was now accustomed to.

She'd done this.

This had been wholly her fault.

She did what she always did—made a choice that in the moment seemed right, not anticipating the catastrophic consequences it would have. Ever since she was a child, she'd had a penchant for ruining the good things she had. It was always unintentional, always wrought from the best intentions, and always left her feeling empty—and worse than that, foolish. She was always able to look back and plainly see her mistakes, able to pin-point exactly where things had gone awry.

Now, she'd given Robin his out—and out he never asked for—and regardless of whether or not a new opportunity presented itself, he'd taken that out.

It was more than apparent...

"You do realize brooding isn't going to help matters, don't you?" She looks up, watching as Mal practically floats into the room, already in her pajamas and a silky, flowy robe. "I don't have plans tonight. We should do something."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Well, you have to eat—" Regina sighs, rolling her eyes. "Look, it's December, Regina. Everything's crazy around the holidays. The mail's slower because everyone and their brother is sending packages here and there, people have family obligations and extra errands to run. I… I truly think this is about timing."

Her brow arches. "Timing? Really?"

"Sure!"

Regina scoffs. "Okay—"

"And what's the alternative? He's suddenly lost interest?"

"Yes," Regina blinks. "That's exactly the alternative."

"And why would he just randomly—"

"Because it's not random. I set it into motion." Her head falls back against the couch and her eyes press closed. "Mal, I sent that stupid letter. I got stuck in my head and felt like I was holding him back and _I told_ him to look for someone else."

"That's not what you said."

"That's what I _implied_! Oh my god, I am such an _idiot_, Mal."

Mal draws in a breath and though she isn't looking at her, she knows exactly what her face looks like and she knows that she's looking at her that same disapproving glare she gave her when she confessed what she'd written all those months before.

"You could… say something, you know."

"What would you like me to say, Regina?" Mal asks, clicking her tongue. "I could agree with you, but that wouldn't help. You don't need more of a reason to beat yourself up—"

"But do you agree?" Regina looks back to her, her eyes wide. "You do, don't you?"

Mal's arms fold and her eyes narrow. "You've been drinking."

"I don't see why that matters."

"You opened up that bottle of tequila, didn't you?"

Regina's eyes roll, feeling like a child being chastised for breaking into the liquor cabinet. "It was already open and I only had one glass. I'm not drunk."

"Alcohol never helps when you're like this."

Her jaw tenses with indignation. "Like what?"

"On your self-destructive path."

Standing, Regina goes to the window, looking out at the already-darkening sky. "I just… I wish I could know. I wish there was some way to—"

"Write to him. Send it express."

"That'll still take at least a week, and I did write to him. He never replied." Mal frowns. Regina can see her reflection in the window. "He didn't like me when he first met me."

"A lot of people don't like you when they first meet you."

A half-hearted grin tugs up at the corner of her mouth and she turns to face her. "You liked me."

"I was five. I liked everyone." She shrugs. "And you had nice hair."

Regina's brow arches. "I had _nice hair_?"

"Yes. Everyone in my family had dark hair, and I wanted it," she says simply. "Your mother or someone curled it into these perfect little ringlets and you had nice, thick bangs and your bow actually stayed tied the whole day. I was jealous. I looked like a drowned rat most of the time."

Regina blinks, remembering Mal's poker-straight blonde hair—something she had always envied—that had always been the bane of her existence. "I can't believe this is the first I'm hearing of this."

"Even at six I was too proud." A little laugh escapes her. "You had nice eyebrows, too."

"Is… there a point you're trying to make?"

"Other than that you don't know everything?" Mal asks, her head tipping slightly to the side. "And other than that first impressions are irrelevant?"

"Are you saying I don't have nice hair?"

Mal's eyes roll. "I'm literally just saying that when we first met, you were likable. That you are a likable person."

"Well, I've changed quite a bit since I was six."

"You know what else I remember about you back then?"

"No, but I bet you're going to tell me."

"I remember that you had no idea how pretty you were." Regina's brow furrows. "You didn't. You had no confidence in yourself. I remember that little creep Sidney and all his friends used to huddle up and whisper, and you were always convinced that they were talking about you, calling you names and—"

"I was six."

"This isn't different, Regina."

"It's entirely different!" Regina feels her eyes go wide. "Mal, I literally told the man that I love that he should go and find someone else. And then, I took it back and included those ridiculous pictures—"

"Those pictures were _not _ridiculous."

"I was practically throwing myself at him."

"Yeah. From across the ocean." Mal sighs and sits down on the couch, reaching for Regina's hand and tugging her down beside her. "Listen. First and foremost, you looked hot in those pictures. Second, even if he wasn't into you anymore, there's no way he didn't enjoy those pictures, and third, you got scared and you did something dumb. You had his best interest in mind, and then you calmed down and corrected the mistake. Sure, a couple of weeks went by between—"

"Months went by."

"Not really."

Regina's brow arches. "Are you telling me I don't know how to read a calendar?"

"I'm telling you that if you take out the time that the letters take to arrive—the amount of time they sit in crates on ships and being sent from Post Office to Post Office—like, two weeks went by."

"That's... not how it works."

"That's just not how it works in your head." Mal sighs and gives Regina's hand a little squeeze. "You don't know what happened. Maybe his letter got lost or maybe—"

"Or maybe he just realized how neurotic I am and decided that for once in my life I was actually right and he can do better."

For a moment, Mal just stares at her. "Why do I even bother with you?"

A little grin tugs up at the corner of Regina's mouth. "You'd miss my face too much if you didn't."

With a sigh, Mal nods. "You're right. I would. As infuriating as you are…"

"You'd miss my pretty hair and good brows."

"You just… you just need to get out of your own head, Regina. You invent problems where they don't exist. That was your problem when you were six and that's your problem now. You can't—"

"What am I supposed to do, Mal? He's an ocean away."

"There has to be something that—"

"There's not. Not if he doesn't respond to my letters. I can't call him or—"

"Why not?"

Regina blinks. "Well, he doesn't have a telephone, so—"

"Arthur does."

"But he doesn't live with Arthur."

"But the only reason Arthur has one is that he was using the one at the Post—"

"Mal, this is completely irrelevant."

Mal's lips press together and she nods in agreement. "I know. I just… I hate seeing you so helpless and—" Her voice halts. "You need a distraction."

"That's what the tequila was supposed to be for."

"No, a real distraction—"

"Mal," Regina cuts in. "I'm not in the mood to go out and—"

"Christmas is coming, right?" Regina's eyes narrow. "I still haven't gotten Henry anything."

"Are you suggesting we go shopping?"

"No, I'm suggesting _you _go shopping." Mal bounces up and moves toward the desk. "For the last few years, I've gone _all out_ for Christmas. I felt like I had to make it up to Henry since he couldn't go home and, truthfully, I really enjoy spoiling him."

"Mal, I can't—"

"I always call you anyway, Regina. I never know what to get that kid." Mal turns back to her, holding a little envelope embellished with the bank logo. "This is my Henry Budget."

"I couldn't—"

"Why not? I was going to spend it anyway. I literally went to the bank this morning, but you were at work, so I couldn't go because I had no idea what to get him." Mal shoves the envelope into Regina's hand. "Go. Spend it. Get lost in the department store finding things to spoil your son with. You'll feel better. I promise."

Biting down on her bottom lip, Regina looks to the envelope considering what it'd be like to shop the way she used to—to go into a store and not worry about the price of anything, to simply get whatever she saw and liked. Slowly, she parts the sides of the envelope, her brow jutting up at the number of bills in it. "_I_ didn't even spend this much on Henry last year."

"I told you. I like to spoil him, even if I haven't the slightest clue what a boy his age would like." Mal shrugs. "Truthfully, you'd be doing me a favor and him a favor."

Again, she bites down on her lip. "You don't want to come?"

"No, I've got some things to do around here," she says, sighing. "My cook has decided she's going to retire. Her son and his wife just bought a house up in Edinburgh. She's going to live with them. So, I need to make some inquiries." Mal grins. "So, you have three hours of retail therapy in front of you, and when you get back, I'll be so bored I won't be able to pass up the opportunity to look at slingshots and… sweater vests and…"

Regina's laugh interrupts her. "You really don't have any idea of what Henry likes."

Mal shrugs, a satisfied little smile edging over her lips. "See? It's already working."

"Maybe—"

"Just… enjoy yourself, and… try not to do anything stupid."

At that, Regina laughs again and agrees—but this time she feels a little knot forming in her stomach, and she doubts the distraction will actually work.

* * *

The day hadn't gone at all as planned, and a late start easily turned into a non start.

An unexpected snowfall halted his plans, and by the time he dug out his truck, Mrs. Potts was staring out at the unshoveled sidewalks that would lead her away from their building and toward the hospital where she worked in the laundry room—and for the first time, she asked a favor of him that wasn't dropping in uncomfortable pretense. The twenty minute drive, however, took more than an hour one way, and by the time he made it back home, Roland was awake and antsy, quick to remind him of the promise he'd made the night before to go out and buy the items necessary to build his gingerbread house later that evening.

The market was relatively quick, and by the time they left, most of the shop owners on Main Street had shoveled the walkways in front of their shops.

Robin stomped his boots on the mat as they entered the candy store and by the time he was done, Roland was already inside and half way down an aisle, picking out butterscotch buttons.

"Hey, Ingrid," he says, sighing as he watches his son fill up a bag with too many pieces of the candy. "How's business these days."

She grins and offers a shrug. "It's Christmas. I do more business at Christmas than I do at any other point in the year."

"Well," Robin says, leaning against the counter. "Something tells me my son's about to double your sales."

At that, Ingrid laughs. "Is he looking for something in particular?"

"About forty different kinds of candy," Robin says, pulling out the list he'd written out that morning. "He found a gingerbread house in a magazine and—"

"And now he's going wild."

"I think that's accurate," Robin says, chuckling softly as he watches Roland carefully pull a peppermint stick out of a container, giving it a long whiff. "This gingerbread house is going to cost more than a month's rent at my actual house." Pausing, he looks between Roland and Ingrid. "You know… I have an errand to run down the street. Could you help him pick out what's on this list and—"

"And stick to what's actually on the list?"

Robin laughs. "Well. He can get a thing or two for himself. Just…"

"Within reason."

"Exactly."

"I'll do my best," she says, coming around the counter and dusting her hands off on her apron. "You know, my shop is one of the shops that Santa Claus comes to stock the town's children's stockings with candy." Her voice rose an octave, catching Roland's attention. "It'd be a shame if we sold out of some of his favorites."

Ingrid grins and Robin shakes his head. "Thank you," he murmurs. "I won't be long."

"Take your time. It's a slow day in here."

Robin nods. "Well, still. It's not your job to babysit and—"

"I'll hardly have to do anything. He's already entranced. He'll still be in a daze when you return, I'm sure."

Chuckling softly, Robin nods—Ingrid is likely right.

"Hey Roland," he calls, crouching down so he's at Roland's level. "Come here a minute, bud." Ingrid laughs as Roland runs toward him—waddling, really, as he struggles to lift his boots to hit an actual stride. "You remember Ingrid, right?"

Roland nods, his eyes casting down, suddenly shy. "Yes. She's the Candy Lady."

Ingrid laughs. "I think that might be the nicest name I've ever been called."

Roland's cheeks flush. "Well, you see, I've got to run to the Post Office, so Ingrid—"

"You can call me Candy Lady. I don't mind," she says, crouching down and winking at Roland. "I kinda like it."

Roland grins up at her and Robin chuckles—of John's exes, she's absolutely his favorite. "She's going to help you pick out what we need for the gingerbread house and help you pick out some things that Santa can put in your stocking."

Ingrid nods. "It's true. Every year he stops in and I just never know what to tell him."

Robin laughs as Roland's eyes widen and a smile pulls onto his lips—and before he can tell him to be good or not to load up on unnecessary things, Roland and Ingrid are already down an aisle pulling a jar of sno-caps from the shelf.

He hesitates for just a moment before turning away and heading down the street to the Post Office at the end. There's a line for the telephone booth, and he sighs before taking his place, shoving his hands into his pockets and avoiding eye contact with Will, the manager. As a reflex, he finds himself hiding in his jacket...

It's not that he doesn't like Will—quite the contrary, actually—and there had been a time when they were close. They'd know each other since they were kids. They'd gone to school together, worked odd jobs as teenagers together, and when they were drafted into the army, they went to training camp together.

During the war, Robin went off in one direction and Will went in another—then after, nothing was the same.

For a time, Will was his favorite drinking buddy—the one he could go to when he wanted to forget about the world. But he found himself "getting lost" with Will far too often and even in his haze, he could see the effect it was having on his marriage. Still, it took a while to figure out how to handle it and it wasn't until they both ended up drunk and in a jail cell with little memory of what had gotten them there that he finally had to put the friendship behind him. Marian hadn't given him much of a choice.

John still saw him every now and then—to drink and play cards, and occasionally to do a job run. But Robin never went and when John returned home, he never asked.

He can't quite explain why that was—maybe he was afraid of falling down the rabbit hole again, maybe he felt sorry for him or maybe he felt guilty.

Nonetheless, he avoids eye contact, pulling out the copy of _Ladies Home Journal _that Roland made him bring along for reference. He reads the article about the gingerbread house, carefully reading through the instructions for the umpteenth time before moving onto an article about the "necessity" of an in-house dishwasher. He scoffs at the article, rolling his eyes at the testimony of housewives whose lives were revolutionized by the device, and he chuckles softly to himself at the thought of making John obsolete.

The line moves relatively quickly—it's difficult to have a full conversation, when you're standing upright and crammed in a tiny little booth with no less than twelve people impatiently standing behind you—and as he inches closer and closer, his heart beats faster and faster.

He thinks about what it'll be like to hear her voice again, wondering if he'll be able to close his eyes and pretend that she's standing there with him. He thinks about what she'll say—will she laugh about the mix up? Will even believe that there was a mix up? Will she be relieved to hear his voice or—

Suddenly, he's aware that it's his turn. His stomach lurches and his palms are clammy—and suddenly, he's rooted in place.

It takes a moment for him to regain his nerve.

His hands nearly shake as he reaches for the phone and puts the receiver to his ear.

"How may I help you?" the operator asks.

"Um, I need to be connected to, uh, Mallory Pendragon. London, England."

"Of course. Since it's international, it'll be a couple of minutes."

He waits as the line is connected for him—and as he waits, his nerves begin to give way to his excitement.

Finally, the line connects. It rings once, then twice, and then a third time—and just as he feels himself sighing, a woman's voice is on the other end—a woman he can only assume is Mal.

"Hello, um… um, this Robin… Robin Locksley. I'm calling—"

"Oh shit—"

He stops as her voice interrupts his, caught off guard by her reaction to his call. "Is… is this a bad time?"

"She's not here, Robin."

"Oh—"

"Damn it. I sent her shopping." Mal sighs on the other end. "Fuck."

"Oh—"

"She's been eager to hear from you, you know?"

At that, he smiles. "Has she?"

"She's going to be absolutely beside herself and if you weren't an ocean away I'd murder you for putting her through such hell."

A little chuckle escapes him and for some reason, her threat makes him smile, too. "Uh, do you… do you think you could take a message?"

Mal laughs—or maybe it's a scoff. "You've heard the phrase "shoot the messenger," haven't you?"

"Um, yes—"

"Well, that's exactly what Regina's going to do." His brow furrows, not quite sure how to take that. "But go ahead. She may shoot me when she hears your message, but if she finds out I didn't bother to take one, I'll be sleeping with one eye open for the next month."

Robin laughs, reminded of his own relationship with John—and upon that realization, his shoulders relax. And then his mind suddenly goes blank. He spent the earliest hours of the morning lying in bed and thinking of what he'd say to Regina, he'd never planned for what he'd say to Mal in Regina's absence. "Um, can you… can you just tell her that…" His voice trails off and a sly little smile tugs up from the corner as he remembers Regina's last letter to him. "Tell her I _want _her to be selfish."

He can almost hear Mal's confusion on the other end. "You want her to be… _selfish_."

"Yes."

"And… that's… that's all you want to say to her?"

"For now, yes."

"Alright then, I'll tell her," Mal says with a sigh. "If you're sure—"

"I'm positive," he interjects, smiling like an idiot. "Anything more I'd want to come directly from me."

"Okay—"

"Thank you. Good night."

Mal returns the sentiment and the line goes dead, then with a little laugh he hangs the receiver back on the wall. He turns out of the booth, stepping aside as he makes his way toward the door, ducking out unnoticed.

His plan hadn't gone at all as he planned and he wouldn't lie to himself and say he wasn't disappointed that he didn't get to talk to her, but at least his message would be conveyed, at least they could stop torturing themselves over what the other was or wasn't thinking, and maybe their next correspondence would get them back to the way they'd been before that god damned letter about keeping options open.

* * *

Mal taps her foot, fidgeting as she stares at the telephone, cursing herself for sending Regina on that damn shopping trip. Truly, she'd just meant to take her mind off of Robin for a bit, wanting her to have something to do that didn't involve silently berating herself—and, of course, there was the added personal bonus of not having to figure out what a boy Henry's age might like as she wandered aimlessly through the sections of Peter Robinson's Department Store that were most foreign to her.

Though she had no way of knowing that Robin Locksley would choose _that _particular evening to call, Regina would be upset. And she understood that—if their positions were reversed she'd be upset and though it wouldn't be the most rational line of thought, she'd lash out and look for someone to blame for her misfortune.

Biting down on her lip, she got up and went back to the phone in the hall, swirling the cord between her fingers as she waited for an operator to connect.

"Can I help you?"

"The number that just called here, can you call them back?"

"I can try."

"It was placed from the states," she says. "A little Post Office in Storybrooke, Maine."

"Yes, I have it here," the operator tells her in an almost mechanical voice. "I'm connecting you now."

Mal holds her breath, waiting as the call connects, and to her surprise, the line rings. Exhaling, she smiles, glad to be over the first hurdle; she didn't really have a backup plan for if the line had been busy.

"Storybrooke Post," says a voice, "How can I help ya?"

"Hello," she begins. "I need to speak to the office manager or—"

"That'd be me."

Her brow furrows. The man's words sound slightly slurred. "Oh, how perfect," she coos. "What luck!"

There's a pause. "So, can I help ya or—"

"Mm, yes," she says, drawing in a breath. "My name's Mallory Pendragon—"

"Pendragon—"

She smiles at his recognition of her name. Good, she thought. He was more likely to take her offer seriously if he knew of her family and their wealth. "And what's your name?"

"Will Scarlett."

Her eyes narrow, a faint memory conjuring—but it's too faint to have much meaning. And truly, it doesn't matter if she recognizes the name or not. "Well, Mr. Scarlett, I have a proposition for you,"

He huffs, and she can practically feel his smug smirk. "Do ya now?"

Her eyes roll, but she laughs. "Not like that!"

"Well, you're no fun—"

"I'm plenty fun," she tells him. "It's too bad I'm so far away, otherwise I'd come over there and show you."

"Is that so?"

He sounds amused. "It _is _too bad."

"So, Mr. Scarlett, I'm wondering if you might do me a big favor?"

"Depends on what it is—"

"Or what you'll get in return?"

He offers a hearty laugh. "We've already established I won't be getting anything from ya."

She resists the urge to groan, giggling instead. "_Actually_, we haven't established that at all."

There's a pause. "I'm listening."

"Can I ask you a frank question?"

"'Course. Ya can ask me anything, darlin'."

She grimaces—he thinks he's getting phone sex, she thinks to herself. "How much do you earn a week at the Post Office?" There's another pause. He didn't expect that. "Oh come on," she coos. "Tell me."

"I'm the manager—"

"That isn't what I asked."

Again, there's a pause. She can tell he's trying to figure out what to tell her.

Finally, he says. "Thirty-five a week."

Her brow arches. That's clearly a lie. But she plays along. "Is that so?"

"It is—"

"How would you like to make that in just a few hours for doing a teeny, tiny little favor for me."

"I'm listening."

She smiles—there was no pause there. "You know of my brother, Arthur, don't you?"

"I do—"

"Good. He'll be by in the morning with your money—assuming you play along."

"And what exactly would I be playing along with?"

She grins, making a mental note to call Arthur once hanging up—of all the unreasonable things she'd asked him to do for her over the years, this was one of the most benign. "I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Scarlet."

She goes on to explain her plan—a plan she's very much just making up on the spot, a plan that could easily be the rising action of a play you'd see on the stage or a motion picture you'd see at the cinema. She goes on to explain to Will Scarlett that once the Post Office closes, he needs to send a note to Robin Locksley, summoning him to the Post Office once it's closed to the public. Once Robin is there, his work is mostly done—he's to leave him alone and let him make use of the telephone. He can stay or allow Robin to lock up—that's up to him and what he's comfortable with, but he's to allow Robin as little or as much time as he needs, and he's to afford him privacy regardless of whether or not Robin thinks he wants it.

"So, send a note—"

"No, Mr. Scarlett. You go and get him. Drag him, if you must."

There's a pause. "So, I bring him here—somehow—and then I get the thirty-five dollars you say you'll pay."

"Yes."

"And suppose he's reluctant—"

"You can tell him it was my request." She pauses. "You can tell him I relayed his little message about being selfish and was instructed to—"

"What the hell does that mean? Who's selfish?"

"Never mind that. Will you do it?" There's another pause and her stomach lurches as she senses some reluctance. "Listen. How about this—since I'm asking you to _personally _pass along the message and retrieve him—what if I make it forty-five dollars?"

"For personally putting me out—"

"Yes."

"Fifty."

"Fine." Her eyes roll. The cost of this is completely irrelevant. "Fifty it is, Mr. Scarlet."

"You've got yourself a deal then," he says, his voice sounding particularly satisfied with his negotiating. "And you said your brother would be by with the money—"

"Assuming that you follow through."

"And how will you know that I do?"

Her eyes roll. "Never mind that either, Mr. Scarlett. I have eyes and ears everywhere."

She grins liking to keep herself shrouded in mystery.

"Well, Ms. Pendragon, should you ever find yourself back in Storybrooke, look me up and we can personally thank one another."

She's queasy at the thought. "Mm, I'd love that."

"Ya know, I could give ya a pre—"

"I really must be going now," she interjects, not wanting him to tell her any more about the preview he'd be giving her. "But Mr. Scarlet, I won't forget this favor."

Before he can reply, she hangs up, setting the receiver back on the cradle, exhaling and shivering as she thinks of what Will Scarlet might've proposed they do to one another as a thanks. And she can't help but think she'd much rather pay him the fifty dollars than even think about it…

She places a call to Arthur next, and though he's minorly annoyed with having to make a stop at the bank and run another errand, he agrees rather easily—after making a few off-handed inquiries about what dealings she has with a con man like Will Scarlett. She brushes off his questions and ends the call, feeling quite satisfied with herself—and no sooner than she hangs up, she hears Regina coming through the front door.

Moving to the bar, she pulls out two classes, filling them with ice cubes before pouring the whiskey—and just before Regina enters the living room, she tosses back a shot.

"I can't wait to see what I got Henry," she says, coming around the bar and holding out the drink.

Setting the bag on the nearest chair, Regina's eyes narrow and she accepts the drink. "What happened?"

"What makes you think something happened?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"That look you get when you don't want to tell me something?"

Mal sighs, her eyes momentarily pressing closed. "Drink up first."

"Oh, god. Why? What happened?" Regina sinks down onto the chair next to the seemingly-forgotten bag. "Just tell me."

"Robin called."

For a moment, Regina doesn't react. She just sits there, staring blankly.

"He called about an hour after you left and—"

"R-robin called me?"

"Yes."

Swallowing hard, her eyes fall to the floor. "Oh…"

"Regina—"

"What did he want?" Regina looks up, her eyes wide. "Is… is he okay? Is Roland okay?"

"Yes, he's—"

"Then—"

"He didn't really say."

"Oh—"

"But he did ask me to give a message."

Regina grimaces as if bracing herself for the worst—and truly, she might be, depending on how she deciphers his message. "He told me to tell you that… that he wants you to be selfish."

A slight smile tugs up from the corner of her mouth and then she blushes, nearly blushing as she says, "He… he said that. He used that exact word?"

Mal nods. "Yes. I don't know what it means, exactly, but judging by the look on your face, you do."

"In the last letter I sent—the one that I sent the pictures with—I told him I didn't care if I was being selfish when I said that I didn't want him to see other women." A little giggle escapes her as she bites down on her bottom lip. "So, he… he still wants to… to be whatever it is that we are."

"I think the formal term to explain what he is to you would be _boyfriend,"_ Mal says, her own grin edging over her lips. "He would be your boyfriend and you would be his girlfriend."

"I suppose so."

Her smile is bright and genuine, reaching her eyes—and again, Mal feels her own smile widening. "So, now that I've told you that and you've reacted as your have… you won't be upset with the other thing I have to tell you."

Regina's smile fades. "Other thing?"

"You have a date… sort of."

"Mal," Regina sighs. "I'm going out with—"

"Over the phone. Around three in the morning. With Robin."

"What? How is that—"

Mal shrugs, her smile turning coy. "I have my ways."

Regina only laughs—and she says a silent prayer that her offer to Will Scarlett was tantalizing enough to entice him to follow through, and if it wasn't, she swears to whomever is listening to her prayer, she'll murder him for making a liar of her should she ever find herself back in Storybrooke.


	18. Chapter 18

The phone barely rings once before Regina plucks the receiver up from the base, her heart racing and her skin prickling with anticipation—and when the phone actually rings, she practically jumps out of her skin, scrambling to pick it up.

"Will you accept a call from—"

Her eyes roll at the sound of the operator's voice. "Yes," she says as she sinks back into the armchair she's dragged out into the hallway and twists the cord between her fingers, trying not to sound as annoyed as she is. "I accept the call."

Before she hears his voice, she hears him draw in and release a breath—he's anxious, too, she realizes, and somehow that puts her at ease.

"Robin," she says, smiling when she hears a little laugh bubble out of him. "Hi."

"Hi."

"I, um… I'm sorry I missed your call."

"I am, too," he says wryly. "Or, I was."

"Was?" she asks, biting at her bottom lip as her shoulders tense.

"This is better, I think."

Regina breathes out and smiles. "It's late—for me and you."

"Is it too late?" His voice is suddenly hesitant and unsure. "It has to be past two."

"It is," she confirms, again biting at her lip. "But, um… this far beats sleeping."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "And it's a long time coming."

Regina's eyes press closed and she nods—she didn't quite realize how much she missed the sound of his voice, and it's not lost on her how close she came to never hearing it again, how close she came to driving him away, how close she came to ruining what was between them. "Robin, I… I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I almost threw away—"

"No," he says, his voice cutting in and halting hers. "See. Here's the thing, Regina. You might've given me an out, but that doesn't mean I'd ever take it." She can almost see a smug little grin stretching over his lips. "You might remember when we first met, I was happily unattached and one of the things I found appealing about you is how unavailable you were."

Though he can't see her, she nods anyway—she does remember. At the time, it all seemed so complicated. He was a single father and a still-grieving widower, she was married and in a powerful and highly visible position within the community. There was no reason they should've worked—there was no reason they should've even attempted to make it work—yet they'd proved to be exactly what the other needed, filling in the space in the other's life in a way that no one else could. And looking back on it, it now seemed like a simpler time.

"I'm an idiot."

At that, he laughs. "Well, I love you anyway."

"You love me," she says, blushing slightly as she relishes in that she can state that as a fact rather than as a question. "For reasons I will never understand but am eternally grateful for… you love me."

"You and only you."

Her cheeks warm and her eyes press closed as the syrupy sweetness of it. In any other instance, with any other person, it would be the sort of thing she rolled her eyes and scoffed at. But with him it was different.

Everything with him was different.

"I don't deserve you."

"Sure you do," he says, a wry chuckle rising I to his voice. She closes her eyes, she can practically see his smirk tugging up from the corners of his mouth. "I'm not sure what it says about either of us, but I think we deserve each other."

She laughs. "You got a raw deal."

"Oh, no. No. I hit the jackpot."

"Sure you did. You won a married woman whose insecure and moved to the opposite end of the earth and—"

"And whose gorgeous and sexy. Exceptionally brilliant and witty with a heart of gold and—"

"You flatter me."

"That's the idea."

"Well, that'll get you nowhere."

"I wouldn't say nowhere."

Her brow cocks. "Well, it won't get me into bed."

A little laugh bubbles out of him. "Not anytime soon."

"So, what is this? Like a points system or—"

"Yes," he says, laughing out, this time in a burst. "When I reach a thousand points I get to see you again."

"And what happens when you reach a thousand and nothing changes?"

She means it as a joke, but feels her voice catch and her throat constrict, and suddenly what was supposed to be a lighthearted moment felt heavier.

"This isn't going to change."

"Won't it?" he asks. "Some day?"

"I want to say yes."

"Then say yes."

"Robin—"

"Just... for right now, just… go with it. Pretend with me."

Her eyes roll, but nonetheless, she feels a smile forming over her lips. He was good at this—good at sidetracking her, good at keeping her in the moment, good at making her feel the impossible was possible. Even now in this ridiculous situation they were in, he set her at ease.

"I wish you were here."

"I wish I could be."

Regina bites down on her lip and feels warm tears welling in her eyes. It seems like a lifetime has passed since they last stood face to face.

For a short time, he'd been a fixture in her life—steady and there, a bright spot amid the bleakness.

"I think about you constantly, you know," she tells him, her voice suddenly sounding hoarse. He offers a sort of sigh as a response and she can practically see him with his head dropped forward and his forehead pressed against the glass that encloses the phone booth at the post office, his eyes pressed closed.

Regina draws in a breath, collecting herself.

She doesn't want to cry.

She won't cry.

She won't waste this precious time they have together wallowing in what they've lost and can't have.

"Those pictures," says, grimacing a little as she thinks of them, remembering how she'd posed for them and chosen the ones she thought he'd like best—and she thinks of the ones she didn't send, tucked away in the bottom of a drawer only to ever be seen by two sets of eyes. "How many points are they worth?"

She can tell the question catches him off guard and she can almost see him—eyes narrow and a smirk forming—as he considers it.

"We need to consider how these points work."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know," he says, a light rising up at the end. "But you see, I'm wondering… are these collective points or individual ones?"

"I don't see why _you_ should get points for _my_ pictures."

"So individual."

"Yes."

"Okay."

He sounds pensive and she laughs.

"A hundred, then."

"That's it?"

"That's a lot!"

"_Those pictures_ were a lot."

"So it's fair—" He pauses, his voice slightly clipped as if trying to figure out what he should say next, and she laughs out. This is ridiculous, they are being ridiculous. "One hundred points."

She's missed this.

The lightheartedness.

The quick, silly banter.

The ease of it all.

"If the end game is a thousand points—"

"How about this phone call?"

He laughs. "Those are Mal's points, I believe."

"Oh, so this goes three ways?"

Robin doesn't quite reply—not with words at least. He stammers, repeating the same syllable again and again before falling silent, and she can almost feel his cheeks warming, flushing red beneath his stubble.

"Not like _that_!"

"Can I be honest with you?"

"Is this the part where you tell me you think my best friend is hot?" Her arms fold over her chest, her grin turning coy. "Because that's _negative_ points."

"Let me remind you that I've never even _seen_ your best friend."

"People say her voice is hot."

"I might agree… if I didn't find her terrifying."

"Those things aren't mutually exclusive. You can think something's hot and terrifying."

"Are you trying to set me up or—"

"I'm just saying. It's possible."

"But—"

"She's a lesbian, though. She wouldn't be into it."

"Me or the possibility of a ménage a trois situation?"

"You _didn't_ just suggest that."

"No, _you_ did."

She stops and momentarily they both go silent—and then in an abrupt burst, they both laugh out. She laughs until tears are welling in her eyes and her stomach hurts—and on the other end, Robin's laugh rings in unison with hers.

"I request a change of subject," he says, his breath ragged and his voice light. "I think the ocean between us is enough. There isn't room for anything or anyone else."

"Not interested in sharing, got it."

"I… feel like this is a topic we might return to at another time."

"A ménage a trois with my best friend?"

"No, you're just… very casual about sharing."

"Would that be an issue?"

Again, she can hear him hesitate—and for a split second, she considers all that he doesn't know about her.

"No," he says with more confidence than she expects. "Not in the least. I'm just… curious."

"Curious is good."

"Healthy, even."

"Absolutely."

Again, they both laugh—and again, she can't help but notice the ease between them.

"So, you wanted to change the subject?"

"I did and then we didn't."

"Well, here's your chance," she says. "What should we talk about?"

Robin hums as if actually considering it and then a little _ahh_ bubbles out of him as if he's stumbled upon something that was lost.

"So back to those pictures…"

"Oh god, do you know how I stressed about those?" she laughs, biting down her lip. "I thought—"

"The one of you in the pearls," he murmurs, his voice now husky. "It reminds me of that night we spent together."

Her cheeks are warm. "Does it?"

"Mm—I think of you laying there beside me. Your head turned on the pillow, the blanket only covering you from the waist down, how soft your skin looked in the moonlight."

She grins, biting hard at her lip—the conversation is taking a turn. "Are you alone? I thought—"

"John took Will to the bar."

"Did he?"

"So it's just me and you," he says, a little laugh escaping him. "Sort of."

She can't help her smirk, her eyes shifting up to the darkened stairway. No light could be seen from beneath Mal's door and the house was silent save her own voice.

"So…you were saying?" she asks, her heartbeat quickening as she sits back in her chair and twirls the cord between her fingers.

He laughs again—low and wet—and his laugh makes her heart flutter. Her eyes close as she imagines him stepping toward her, his eyes locking with hers. "I wish I could touch you."

Her eyes press tighter as she thinks of him reaching out and tugging at the knot on her robe, his hand pushing inside of it and pressing against her bare skin. "What would you do?"

"I'd pull you to me by the hip, let my hand slip over that fantastic ass of yours—"

She smiles as she imagines it.

"I'd kiss along your neck and throat—"

A little shudder runs through her as she reaches up and touches—just barely touches—her fingers to her throat.

Her fingers swirl around her nipples as he tells her how he sucks them—giving them each a little attention, teasing her, before letting his lips trail down her torso as he sinks down to his knees.

"And then what?" she asks, her voice impatient as her fingers slide down over her stomach. "What would you do next?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice turning coy. "_You_ tell me."

Drawing in a breath, she turns her head and looks toward the stairs—once more checking to ensure Mal's light is off, and once more she confirms that it is, and this is as private as it can be.

"I'd want you to get down on your knees."

"And?"

She knows what she'd want him to do. But she doesn't say it. Instead, she feels herself stiffen. "Are you _sure_ you're alone?"

"Yes."

"The Post Office doesn't have a party line. You know that."

She didn't, but nonetheless, she nods. "Neither does Mal," she murmurs, her body relaxing again.

"So we're alone."

"I suppose we are."

"So, uh, where were we?"

"You were… getting down on your knees in front of me."

"Ah. That's right." He sounds smug—smug in his confidence. "And what is it that I'm doing on my knees?"

"Hm…" For a split second, she thinks she may need to consider it, but her voice moves faster than her thoughts. "Your fingers are pressed into my hips...and you're so close to me that I can feel your breath." She leans back, her leg hooking over the arm of the chair. "You'd kiss your way down my body—"

"Your skin's like silk—soft and warm, smooth." Her fingers flirt with the band of her underwear as he hums—hums as though his lips are actually slipping down her skin, as if he's actually sucking at it, as if he's actually teasing her.

Well, that last bit wasn't far off.

"I'd hook my fingers into your panties—" She nods, her own fingers twisting around the thin, silky fabric. "And slowly pull them down—just barely at first."

"At first—"

"Yes—at first," he repeats. "I'd take my time with you," he tells her. "I'd slip my hands inside of them, let them slowly slip over your hips to grab at your ass, and I'd pull you closer to me. So close that my lips would nearly be touching you."

"Nearly—"

"Yes. Nearly."

"Tease."

He offers her a low chuckle. "You like it."

"I do," she admits, a little smile tugging at her lips. "I like it when we have time, when we're not so rushed."

"We have time now."

She's not so sure about that—eventually, Will will return to the Post Office—but nonetheless, she plays along.

"So where were we."

"I believe your hands were—"

"Ah right—on that magnificent ass of yours."

Her eyes roll—he's always been partial to her ass. Be it his eyes or his hands, directly or indirectly, he always paid it special attention. It was no wonder he chose to start there…

"I wouldn't be able to resist kissing you."

"Where?"

"Your stomach—I'd start there, then slowly drag my lips downward."

Her fingers slip down her torso, stopping at the silky band of her underwear, rubbing back and forth against the soft fabric.

"I wish you were really here."

"Pretend I am."

Her eyes open and she sits up a little, her brows arching in consideration. They were already far beyond flirting, and though she wasn't entirely sure what they were doing, he was closer than he'd been in nearly a year.

Leaning back, her cheeks flush and her hand slips into her panties.

"I went to the spa the other day," she tells him, her fingers sliding over her smooth skin, her eyes closing as she pictures him kneeling before her, his breath warm as his fingers hook into the sides of her panties and tug them down over her thighs.

"Now who's the tease?" His voice is husky and she grins. "I'm not sure I'd be able to resist—"

"Then don't."

Even now, even like this, she's impatient.

Her fingers slip between her legs, swirling around her clit and she imagines that it's Robin's tongue on her instead. His voice drops on an octave as he describes what he'd be doing to her if he were there—his mouth pleasuring her, making her wetter and wetter and making her ache for him. She imagines her hand tangling in his hair, her hips thrusting upward as his lips sucked hard on her clit.

She's wet and her fingers work furiously to mimic what she imagines, to mimic what he tells her he'd be doing, to mimic what she remembers from one night they shared in what feels like belongs in another lifetime.

Her breath grows ragged and a soft little moan escapes her. In vain, she's tried to be quiet, but the closer she gets, the harder it is.

"Don't hold back," he whispers hoarsely. "Come for me."

"Robin—"

"Come for me," he says again. "Let go. I want to taste—"

She moans—she doesn't even try to stop herself. Her fingers move faster and press harder as the rub in a jagged, yet circular pattern—and when she feels that first twinge of her pending release, she imagines hooking her leg around him as her hips buck against his face.

And then, she doesn't have to imagine, an orgasm ripples through her and brings her back into the present moment.

His voice coaxes her through it, but she barely hears him over her own breathing and meaningless ramblings.

"You sound like you enjoyed that."

"I did," she admits, her breath still heavy—it wasn't quite the same as having him there, not the same as actually feeling his tongue and fingers taking control of her senses, but it was far better than getting off alone. "I want you inside of me," she says, still panting as she imagines him stretching out beside her, holding his head up with his hand and offering that devilish little grin that always made her a little weak in the knees. "I want…"

"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and full of yearning. "If I were there right now, what would you do to me?"

"Well, I'd want to return the favor—"

"How?"

Grinning, she considers it.

She imagines herself standing up and shrugging off her robe, standing completely naked in front of him. His eyes would take her in slowly…

"I'd push you back into the chair I'm sitting in right now," she tells him. "And slowly, I'd undo your belt and tug down your zipper."

She hears him swallow. "God, how I wish you could—"

"I'd take you in my mouth until you were hard and—"

"You wouldn't need to give it much effort, if any—"

"My tongue would swirl around the top of your cock and fingers would wrap around your shaft as I look up at you and watch the effect I'm having."

He groans and mutters a low _oh, fuck_, eliciting a smile from her before she tells him how her lips would slide down his cock, how she'd take him fully in her mouth before pulling herself back up.

"Your shirt would be open," she says. "And as I pulled my mouth off of you, my hands would slide over your chest to your shoulders."

She stops for a moment, letting herself imagine herself standing up and looking down at his erection, her body aching for it…

"I'd straddle your lap," she says, picturing herself climbing on top of him, knees on either side of his thighs as her arms wrapped around his neck, her chest even with warm lips.

Her nipples are hard—hard from being exposed in the cool, open air, hard from her arousal—and she pinches them, pretending that it's Robin, his teeth nipping at them.

"I'd sink down on you slowly, wanting to savor it—"

He lets out a low and labored breath. "I wish could feel it—the warmth and the wetness, the way…" Robin lets out another breath. "The way you'd feel all around me."

"So full—"

"I'd kiss you—"

"My arms would around wrap around you, my hands would grasp at you, trying to pull you closer—"

"And then your hips would start to move—"

"It'd feel so good."

"I'd kiss you harder—your mouth, your neck, your jaw—"

"Down my throat—"

"Yes," he says, his voice just more than a whisper. "I'd feel the way you were breathing—hard and fast—"

She hums, her fingers lightly touching her throat as her hips rock gently against her hand.

It's not enough.

But it has to be.

Her legs part a bit further as she adjusts her hips, closing her eyes and focusing on Robin's voice as she eases a finger into herself. She rocks her hips for a couple of minutes before inserting another, imagining that Robin is standing between her legs, his length easily slipping into her.

This is harder—picturing it and feeling—but Robin's husky voice anchors her in the moment.

He tells her how his hips would move and where his hands would gravitate to—and her eyes press tighter, imagining his fingers pressed into her hips as his thrusts quicken and become shorter.

Regina's fingers follow suit, her thumb dragging back and forth against her clit with each of her movements.

She lets out a low moan as he describes his head dipping forward to take her breast in his mouth and her back instinctively arches up to meet the lips that aren't there. But she remembers what it felt like and luckily for her he's a thorough storyteller.

Her breath begins to grow ragged as little whimpers escape her—she's close again, she feels her orgasm building.

Robin can sense it, too.

His voice changes.

Her thoughts drift back to that night they spent together—that one night where her thoughts have spent so much time—and she remembers the way he looked down at her as he fucked her, his blue eyes dark with love and lust, like he could live forever in that very moment.

And in a way, he had.

She remembers the ways her body wrapped around his, her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders—even then, she craved him.

The memory is enough to push her over the edge as she writhes beneath her own hand, calling out his name in a ragged voice as her fingers clutch desperately to the phone's receiver.

Then suddenly, it's all too much. Her hand falls away and her body momentarily goes limp as her eyes flutter open, her cheeks flushing as she comes back down to earth.

And when she's finished, Robin offers a wry chuckle. "I don't know how much longer I could at and that—listening to you, imagining you, and not being able to touch you."

"I know," she murmurs, sitting up and feeling a bit dazed. "I might miss you more now than I did before."

"One day—"

"Yeah."

"Fuck—" Her brow furrows slightly at the gruffness of his voice. "I'm also a little jealous."

She shrugs her robe back up over her shoulders. "Why is that?"

"Because you were able to just… let go like that."

Her cheeks flush and her eyes widen. "You mean you weren't… I mean… I thought we were both…" Her eyes press closed as she winces with embarrassment. "Oh my god."

"I'm in a post office, Regina. A post office with a very large front window. I couldn't exactly pull my cock out and just hope no one walked by."

"No," she murmurs. "But, oh god, I—"

"Gave me _a lot _to think about when I take a _very_ cold shower as soon as I get home."

Despite her embarrassment, she laughs. "So you were just… standing there, uncomfortable and—"

"Enjoying every damn second of it."

Her brow arches and a smirk edges over her lips. "Well, isn't this an interesting tidbit for me to store away."

"Store away for later use," he says, his voice amused. "I like it. There's hope in it."

"There is," she says in a tentative voice. "I need to believe there is."

"But just so you know, denial is negative points."

It takes her a moment to understand, but when she does, she laughs—an honest, genuine laugh. "We should do this again," she tells him, leaning back in her chair and drawing her knees up and ignoring how tired she is. "Well, maybe not _this_ exactly…"

"Don't want those negative points, eh?"

"I don't like these negative points."

"Well, tonight wasn't—"

"Even though I denied you your pleasure?"

"Oh, there was plenty of pleasure in it for me and you didn't deny anything, that was me and my… my damn shame."

She laughs, imagining his struggle.

"But this one was neutral," he tells her, "The fact that we got to talk washes out those negative points."

Regina's eyes narrow. "This is a very complicated system."

"This is a very complicated situation."

"Touché."

And then she yawns—and she hates herself for it.

"You're tired," he says, his voice full of regret. "It's gotta be late—"

"Or early, depending on how you think of it."

"Right…"

She sighs, disappointed that the call is winding down. "Maybe the next time we talk, it could be earlier."

"If it's earlier, it can't be like this."

"That's okay," she says. "I just… I just need to hear your voice again."

"Soon."

"Yes, soon."

"After the holidays?"

She nods despite knowing he can't see her. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I'm usually here."

"We'll figure something out."

"Definitely." She draws in a breath and stifles another yawn, suddenly struggling with her emotions. "You should go have that shower."

Robin scoffs or maybe he laughs. "God knows how much I need it."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

She swallows hard and her eyes press closed. "Good night then."

"Goodnight," he tells her.

There's a pause.

A moment of silence between them—neither want to end the call.

"I love you," she says, her voice cracking a little.

"I love you, too," he replies easily—and then there's a little click on the other end and the line goes silent.

For a moment, she just sits there, the receiver still in her hand as she wonders how it's possible that she misses him even more now.

Drawing in a shaky breath she hangs up the phone and stands, knotting her robe tightly at her waist before ascending the stairs, Robin's voice still echoing in her ears.

"You're welcome."

She stops, stiffening as she stands in front of Mal's door—and then she laughs, shaking her head as she continues onto her own room her thoughts shifting once more to Robin and his cold shower.


End file.
